Final Fantasy Tactics: A Novelization
by Rdr2
Summary: We've played it. Now we read it. A fulllength novel of a twisted tale of trust broken and betrayal hatched. RamzaxAgrias. Projected Completion Date: Undetermined. UPDATE: GHOSTWRITING OPPORTUNITY
1. Prologue

Author's Note: Final Fantasy Tactics dealt with some serious issues and had one of the most involved and multilayered plots I've ever encountered in a video game. This is my tribute to it. The sheer density of the convoluted plot means I have to do some major edits to the plot, if only to make it easier to understand for new readers (and because I misplaced my own notes on just what the hell was going on halfway into the game…). At one point in time, I _did_ know exactly what was happening in the plot, but those days are _looong_ gone  
The prologue might seem out of place, but envision, if you will, each of the special characters (Delita, Agrias, etc.) saying a little thing or two about a certain hero. The quotes are separated by capital letters to make it easier to read. Note that the last quote is several paragraphs long. I've given each character a certain way of talking, so you should be able to figure out who's speaking in each quote. In any case, I'm sure it will become clear as the story progresses. But if you know who's who, feel free to put it in a review 

More Notes: No, I'm not adding any characters named "Donovon," "Alicia," "Rad," or any other hireling to the party. The cast is going to be astronomically big as it is, and killing off the excess party members just makes my life that much simpler. As soon as you see a name generated by the FFT Name Generator, consider them dead.

**Prologue: Vignettes and Memoirs from Those Who Followed**

"MY BROTHER was always so kind. He'd always want to help everyone. Even after he knew just how bad and horrible people can be, he still offered that quiet smile and a helping hand. I admired him a lot…."

"THAT GUY…he saved my life. I owe him for that. And he was a great friend. Man, the times we got drunk at the bar…. He and I were a lot alike—never giving up, never getting scared. But you know, after things got really serious, I changed. I started to get scared. But him? No way—he kept on fighting…."

"IF IT weren't for him, I'd have lost my brother and I would have lost myself. The man I called father, the man who tortured me in ways that only a devil could, who took from me my innocence and my woman's pride…and it's only because there are people like that kind boy that I can still live with myself today…."

"THERE ARE few in this world who have that lad's courage. There are fewer that have his heart. I've never seen anyone so determined or so pure. It was…inspiring. I've tried to live a good life for the sake of God, myself, my county, and my son. But that lad…he didn't have to try…."

"I CALLED him a friend once. I loved him like a brother once. When we were kids, nothing could ever stop us. Those days are gone now. I called him a friend, but I was in actuality using him—a fact that I am aware of and accept without remorse. Sometimes at night I wonder how he does it. How he can still be a child. Every time I saw him, after that day at Zeakden, I asked myself: how? I changed at Zeakden. But he didn't. He was still the same as he was when we were kids…."

"FOR A long time, I thought I didn't need a man. It's not that I disliked men. I simply did not believe that every woman needs to be married or needs to take a lover. I wanted to be independent, strong, as capable as any man. The last thing I wanted to be was a damsel in distress. So I worked hard and earned my position despite the jeers and ridicule of my 'peers.'

"My accomplishments outshone those of my male counterparts. I was the best with a sword, the best rider, the best leader and tactician. The praises and medals given me were proof of my ability. Though it is unbecoming for a knight to do so, I reveled in it. Yes, I felt pride. Yes, I was ambitious. But no woman in this world could hope to gain prestige and equality by being demure.

"I can honestly say I was content with living a chaste life, married to sword, country, and duty rather than a man. It displeased my parents that I would throw away my responsibility as a noble daughter to become a soldier and knight, but it felt in my heart that serving God and Ivalice was the right choice for me. So I never gave marriage a second thought. But I never expected to meet _him_.

"It really is quite incredible just how fragile our little private worlds are. I was so sure I'd die a virgin, die in the cause I so believed in, with God as my only heart. But _he_ threw all of that out the window. I must confess, even from the moment I met him, he confused me. He was so sure, so confident, so innocent. Yet, he was accomplished, a soldier…he smelled of blood even as he smiled so pleasantly. He was an enigma.

"I called him a fool once. I said his idealism was kind heart were a show of ignorance of the realities of our world. But I was wrong. He knew the depths of evil and depravity in men's hearts. But even to such despicable creatures, to whom even God would have turned away, _he_ offered a hand. _He_ said 'let me help you.' _He_ walked up to them with open arms…and they would follow him, praise him, call him leader.

"To be sure, I admired him. The dichotomy of childlike innocence and world-weary wisdom was…charismatic, in its own way. But I'm just talking around the point, aren't I? I never could admit it before, but…I can admit it to myself now. I loved him, with all my heart and soul. There was no man—no person, man or woman—in the whole world who was as noble and kind as him. There will never be another man like him. And after loving such a man, I can never have another."

* * *

**The Legend of the Zodiac Braves**

_Long ago, before Ivalice was united as it is now, the land was divided into seven countries that warred with each other in order to expand their borders. Of these, Murond grew to power. Its king, blinded by ambition, sought an easy victory over his enemies. He studied ancient spells and dark rituals, and summoned devils known as the Lucavi. None could comprehend the full extent of the horror his sinfulness unleashed._

_The Lucavi slew the king and rampaged throughout Ivalice, shattering the seven kingdoms. Darkness descended, enveloping the land in what seemed to be an eternity of despair. But twelve heroes arose and took up arms against the Lucavi, brandishing blade and spell in the cause of righteousness. The Lucavi were defeated and sent back to the depths of hell, sealed by twelve magical stones bearing a Zodiac sign._

_Each hero took one of the stones, to ensure that the Lucavi would never return. Because of this, they became known as the "Zodiac Braves."_

Excerpt from the "Zodiac Brave Story"


	2. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: I've always been drawn to the play between Ramza and Delita. Even as a kid, the way their relationship maintained its core elements while evolving into something radically different intrigued me. I sought to capture that in these early chapters. Thus, you'll see that Ramza and Delita, while best friends, have radically different world views—its just that one won't start revealing it to the other until after the Fort Zeakden affair.

Pride and Prejudice Notes: Two recurring themes in FFT—pride and social prejudice. You will see a lot of it in this fanfic. Indeed, I may have even gone overboard on it. I felt that it was not played up enough in the early stages of the game (at least not until Algus started being a total prick), and even then, the interplay was limited to only a few main characters. In order to capitalize on this theme and to give Delita a very definitive reason for becoming a power-hungry plotter later in life, I globalized the social distinctions and made them far more prevalent. They are now extremely crucial to the initial stages of the game.

**Chapter One: The Braves**

Ivalice.

A land of kings, where the crown was law. A land of God, where the church held sway. A land of deceit. A land of war.

Spring had come to this land, bringing with it revitalization and greenery…and bloodshed.

For Ivalice had but left one war for another. Commoners, who had provided the bulk of the war machine during the Hundred Years' War, grew discontent and angry with the increased taxes and lack of reparations in the wake of the final battles. Many turned to banditry. Such groups tended to be small and easily controlled, for it took only a single troop of knights to dispatch them. Peace and order was enforced by the sword, but this was no great surprise to the feudal monarchies of Ivalice.

But some gathered and plotted, staging a greater attack than anything mere bandits could organize. And it was this that proved the largest threat to the stability of a war-ravaged Ivalice….

In Gariland, plans were being made to deal with the new enemy. For within this city of proud Gallione lay the Royal Military Academy, where young nobles from regions as disparate as esteemed Igros Castle to backwater Mandalia received their education in the arts of war. To graduate from this prestigious college was to be awarded knighthood and a place of honor among Gallione's proudest warriors.

Today, the senior cadets of the Academy had been drawn from their normal patrols and classes. Gathered in the auditorium for an urgent meeting with the armsmaster, they gossiped excitedly about the possible reasons for such an unusual occurrence.

"It must certainly be a mission," exclaimed one of the cadets, a handsome and charismatic youth of sixteen. With his bright blue eyes, blonde hair, and smooth, sculpted features, he was a veritable poster child for the Academy's most promising students. His name was Ramza Beoulve, the youngest son of the legendary war hero and Holy Knight, Balbanes. "We have often been told that we are the finest class in the past ten years," he went on, his words drawing approving nods and smiles from his fellow classmates, "so therefore it only stands to reason that they'd need us to aid the knights in securing the peace."

"That makes sense," a dark-haired youth agreed. If Ramza were the poster child, Delita Hyral was the exception to the rule. While every other student was of noble birth, Delita was merely a commoner who was admitted by virtue of sponsorship by Balbanes Beoulve himself. And with such a recommendation, not even the armsmaster—who held a not-so-secret dislike of commoners—could deny young Delita a chance to show his worth.

And show his worth he most certainly did. While Ramza _seemed_ to be the best and brightest, he was, in truth, only an average student. It was, of all people, Delita who held the coveted position of valedictorian. No small number of nobles looked at him with envy or even outright despised him for his accomplishments. To such men, who viewed the differences of caste as an indicator of one's worth in all things, Delita was an aberration, a creature who somehow outstripped the God-blessed nobility in every lesson, skill, and field—with the exception of his social status.

"I have heard that the Marquis of Limberry was heading to Igros to sign a new charter with us," Delita went on, stoically ignoring the dark glares he received from many of his "fellow" students. "As a highly-ranked politician, it wouldn't be above the Death Corps to take advantage of such a man. He could very well have been attacked, which would be cause for the knights to resort to using cadets like us."

Ramza, confused by this reasoning, broached the question, "What do you mean?"

Delita, accustomed to his friend's occasional bouts of denseness, patiently elucidated, "The knights are stretched thin with keeping the peace. Banditry is at an all-time high at the moment, so every soldier has been deployed at outposts and checkpoints. The Death Corps is only making things worse. In order to deal with them, the knights will need to draw their troops out of certain provinces. They'll need us cadets to fill in those outposts and checkpoints in their absence."

The blonde nobleman nodded in understanding. "I see. That makes sense. Do you really think that the marquis will be a target?"

Delita shrugged. "If I were one of the Death Corps, I certainly would consider him a viable one, even if it were to just hold him for ransom."

It was not lost on the young commoner that the gathered nobles—save Ramza—were giving him a look that said, "You almost are one." Delita pointedly ignored their silent barbs, crossing his arms over the leather breastplate he wore.

Suddenly, there came an order, "Attention! Fall into rank!" Armsmaster Tallondale marched to the podium at the head of the auditorium as the cadets assumed precise lines. Giving each of them a stern look—which went double for Delita—to indicate the seriousness of the situation, the armsmaster declared, "You have studied well these last four years. You are now on the cusp of knighthood—" When he said these words, he looked at Delita reproachfully, for he did not approve of a commoner attaining such a title. "—and should be proud of your accomplishment! You are Gallione's finest!"

He paused to let his praise sink in. After seeing the pleased expressions on many faces—though Delita kept his countenance stubbornly flat and professional—Tallondale continued, "But now is not the time for merriment! Now is the time for war! You will be assigned to border positions to watch for the encroachment of bandits and Death Corps soldiers. This is a great honor for men who have yet to graduate from the Academy, for you will be treated with the full honor and authority of knights."

He pounded a gauntleted fist on the podium. "The time to show your worth is now, young heroes of Gallione! Indeed, you will be called to arms this very moment, for the Death Corps has entered the walls of our fair city to raid its stores for supplies and weapons. These dishonorable thieves must be brought to justice. Subdue and capture, but slay if you must. Now go and arm yourselves! Battle is at hand!"

The cadets, eager for real fighting, dismissed themselves with military alacrity. But Tallondale gripped Delita's shoulder, stopping him. Ramza, who would not go anywhere without his friend, halted as well.

"Hyral," the armsmaster said disdainfully, drawing out the common surname with contempt, "I expect you to know your place in this mission."

Delita, face placid, tautly replied, "I do not know your meaning. Sir." The last was a quick addition, just to avoid impropriety.

But Tallondale caught it. "I won't stand for any disrespect from you, commoner, valedictorian though you may be. You will follow the lead of your betters, boy. Do you understand?"

The young commoner clenched a fist tightly, anger starting to seep through his stoic exterior. Ramza saw this and prudently stepped in, putting a calming hand on his friend's shoulder while saying to the armsmaster, "We understand sir. Delita, who is my friend and servant, will follow me lead wholeheartedly." The blonde noble squeezed his friend's shoulder for emphasis.

That was all Delita needed to calm down. In an uncharacteristically meek tone, he said, "As Ramza says, I will follow his lead."

The armsmaster was placated by this, but he put in one final barb, "That would be _Lord Beoulve_ to you, Hyral."

Delita's teeth were grinding so hard that Ramza feared they should shatter. "Of course…armsmaster, sir. Forgive the slip of my tongue." With that, Delita and Ramza left the auditorium to join the other cadets.

The encounter with the armsmaster delayed the two long enough for them to be the last ones in the armory. The other cadets had already selected their weapons, leaving only a paltry array left. Delita grabbed a long-bladed sword, testing the reach and the span of the guards. "Thanks for earlier, Ramza," he said quietly, buckling the weapon around his waist. "I almost lost my head there."

"Don't mention it. You would have done the same for me, right?" Ramza doffed his blue tunic, a fine silk piece, and threw on a thin shirt of mail.

Delita laughed. "Like you'd ever need it. You never lose your temper." He tossed his friend a sword.

Ramza caught it and girded it on. While he tugged his tunic over the mail armor, he said, "I just can't be angry, that's all. But you, Delita, you shouldn't let Tallondale get to you like that. You know you're a million times better than him, me, or any of the other students here. I mean, you're the valedictorian—and you barely try! I don't think I've ever seen you lose in a sword-fight."

"I wish the others could admit that as easily as you," the commoner murmured.

Ramza just flashed him a reassuring smile. "They'll eventually come around, especially now that you're going to be a knight. They'll _have_ to treat you as an equal then!"

Delita was not so sure. All his life he had been looked down on by the nobility—with the exception of Ramza, the younger sister Alma, and the father Balbanes. Delita was all too aware of how prejudices could continue, despite all evidence to the contrary. But seeing the open, kind smile on Ramza's face made it impossible for him to disparage his friend's optimism. "Yes, I'm sure you're right. I'll just have to be patient."

Their preparations finished, the two youths left the armory to join their comrades in battle.

* * *

"Death Corps! Lower your weapons and surrender and you will be spared!" Ramza declared with all the pride and conviction of a son of Balbanes and an heir to the three-hundred-year-long name of Beoulve.

He stood at the head of a street bisected by the River Igros. Assembled with him were the senior cadets and Delita, whose dark eyes followed the movements of every Death Corps trooper. The Death Corps were ten strong, equal in strength to the cadets in terms of numbers. They moved to the alleys and the rooftops, taking advantage of the unusual terrain in order to confuse their enemies.

Indeed, it seemed to be working, for the cadets, clambering atop crates to get to the roofs, were obviously unaccustomed to such unusual battlefields. With only the opening exchanges, the Death Corps felled four of the cadets; the youthful faces were frozen in death masks.

"Do you want to throw your lives away that badly?" Ramza cried.

The leader of the Death Corps company hooted. "You just saw us wipe out almost half of your friends, and you still talk like you've got a chance? You're stupider than you look, brat!"

"You dare to insult a Beoulve?" the noble countered.

That surprised the leader, who drew his sword prominently in reply. "_The_ Beoulve family, eh? I used to work for your father, kid. I was promised a good stipend, enough to feed my wife and kids. What'd the proud and honest Balbanes Beoulve give me? Nothing! His words were just empty promises! We don't get squat from the king, no matter the words of a war hero!"

With that, the leader charged down the street, sword cutting for Ramza's head. The noble raised his sword high in a desperate block. Steel clashed and shrieked. Ramza was a healthy and strong youth, with superior training despite his less-than-phenomenal skill. But his education had never been tested like this. The Death Corps leader had no such training, only experience. And experience was more than enough to send Ramza sprawling onto the flagstones.

"I got to admit," the leader grunted as he approached menacingly, "I'm going to enjoy stepping over you, Beoulve. Just like your precious king stepped over me and all of us other commoners who shed our blood for your stupid war!" He raised his blade high for the killing stroke…

…but found another blade to block it. Delita Hyral had come to Ramza's aid. He shoved the leader back with one heave of his shoulders. "Recall your men," Delita demanded. "I've already slain six of them myself and avenged the cadets they killed." Sure enough, six corpses rested beside the four fallen nobles.

The leader was astonished that such a youth was able to best so many hardened fighters. "You Beoulves…" he murmured, thinking Delita to be of that clan. The young commoner did not dissuade him of this idea, for the thought of facing a skilled "Beoulve" warrior was enough to send terror down the spine of the most experienced swordsman.

The leader, however, regained his courage. "You're just a boy! Ha!" he cried, thrusting with all his strength. Delita parried the strike and slid his sword around his foe's guard. There was the sickening sound of metal entering flesh. Delita kicked the dead man off his blade and offered his hand to Ramza. "Are you all right?"

Ramza took it and got back to his feet, his eyes locked on the corpse at his feet. "We…should have tried to talk to him. His anger was justified…."

"No time for that now!" Delita countered. "Grab your sword—the others are coming right at us!"

The two youths set aside all other concerns as the three remaining Death Corps soldiers rushed them with daggers and swords. The exchange was perilous indeed, for these were the best fighters of the ten that attacked. Ramza was hard-pressed to win a victory, but with a blow that must have been born from luck itself, he buried the edge of his weapon in the throat of his foe. Delita, unsurprisingly, lopped off the heads of the other two soldiers with greater ease.

The young commoner seemed as comfortable on the battlefield as a grizzled veteran. He held himself calmly, resolute and purified of the sin of killing by virtue of survival. It was a stark contrast to his friend, Ramza, who shuddered involuntarily as he regarded the act he just committed. He had never killed a man before, but looking down at the frozen face of the soldier whose life he took sent a chill through him.

"Are you all right?" Delita asked him again, brows knitted in worry. Ramza's lips were almost white.

"Er, I'm fine," the noble stammered. "Just fine. Um, where're the others?"

Delita surveyed the battlefield. "Dead, looks like," he said without remorse. After all, he did not particularly like any of them. "We're the only ones left."

Ramza's shoulders fell sadly. "That's…that's horrible. I mean, this was just our first battle, and they're all…."

"Did you expect it to be a game, where the winners and losers would all still be alive except with a few bruises?" Delita asked coldly. "Grow up, Ramza. We're lucky to still be alive."

Taken aback by the vehemence in his friend's voice, Ramza meekly stuttered, "Er, y-yes we are, b-but still…don't you feel bad about all this?"

"Sure I do," he lied. "They were cadets like us."

"No…I mean about everyone. Even the Death Corps. Their leader said that Father tried to help them, but that his words were hollow. These men had legitimate reasons to be angry with us, Delita. Killing them like this just seems…wrong."

Delita looked at his friend incredulously. Ramza was given to bouts like this, certainly, but he had never sounded so...fervent before. "You always were a bleeding heart," Delita said with a sigh. "Come on, we must report back to Tallondale. He'll have someone…clean up the mess."

* * *

"I'm impressed by your work, Ramza," Tallondale praised with a smile. "That you survived your first battle against such odds is quite remarkable. Truly a testimony to the skill and name of the Beoulves."

Ramza blushed with pleasure. "Thank you for your kind words, sir, but I was not alone in this endeavor. Indeed, I owe my life to Delita, without whose intervention I would most certainly be lying in a grave." The commoner, standing stonily at attention, gave the barest nod to indicate that he heard the praise.

But the armsmaster merely leveled a hard glare on him; Delita tensed up further. Finally, Tallondale said, "Saving one's master is but the duty of the servant. It is not a thing to be praised, Beoulve, lest your servant get the wrong idea. No, his actions are merely what his station demand."

Ramza's face heated with embarrassment for his friend's sake; Delita's face, on the other hand, had turned to ice.

Tallondale did not notice this exchange. He shuffled some papers on his desk and plucked one, handing it to Ramza. "This is your assignment. It is a letter for the captain of the guard at Igros Castle; you and your servant, Delita, will guard the castle from any encroachments by the Death Corps."

"Is that even necessary?" Delita asked, the first words he spoke since entering the armsmaster's office. "Even with only a skeleton guard, Igros is one of the most heavily-defended cities in Gallione. The Death Corps may be a threat, but they are not so strong as to penetrate the castle. Armsmaster, please assign us to a worthier outpost!"

Tallondale's glare became like a legion of mounted knights, their lances leveled at Delita's heart. "Do not question me again, Hyral," he growled. "I won't stand for impudence—not from a Beoulve and especially not from you. You will go to Igros because that is your assignment. Dismissed." He said the word with such finality that the two youths automatically made crisp salutes and left.

As soon as they escaped Tallondale's earshot, Delita punched the wall hard enough for the stone to crack. "That arrogant son of a bitch," he growled.

Ramza tried to mollify his friend's rage with a joke, "Come now, Delita, Igros isn't all that bad at this time of year…."

"You know it's not that, Ramza!" Delita shouted. Seeing his friend's stricken face, he calmed down. "I apologize. Sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just…I'm so…." Delita marched down the hall, Ramza in tow. He scratched at his brown locks in frustration. "Everyone looks down on me, Ramza. Everyone—well, not everyone. You don't. But everyone else just sees me as a commoner, as a low-life who got in because Balbanes gave me a fancy letter. If I show them that I'm smarter, or stronger, or in any way better than they are, they hate me. If I pretend to be useless and common, they just kick me around and treat me like dirt. I can't stand it!"

Ramza did not know how to console his friend or how to remove the anguish he felt. In all the years they had known each other, the young Beoulve had never realized how angry Delita was at the caste system. Perhaps the Beoulve compound was too sheltering, where Ramza and Delita could play without harassment or care for class. Perhaps Ramza just felt so at home here in the Academy, surrounded as he was by friends from equally noble families. In any case, he had been completely oblivious to just how deep Delita's frustration really was.

"Delita…if there's anything I can do to help," but Ramza stopped. Even to him, the words sounded hollow. He was reminded of the Death Corps leader's incriminating declarations.

But Delita waved him off. "Don't worry about it. Sorry I blew up like that; I'll try to be more in control from now on." Then he smiled, forced though it was. "Well? Let's get going. It's good long hike to Igros."


	3. Chapter 2

Author's Note: The initial part of this chapter is to demonstrate the dynamics of Ramza and Delita's relationship. The dialogue is supposed to reflect the issues that will ultimately estrange the two friends after Fort Zeakden. But the banter, physical movements, and other subtleties are intended to show the lighthearted friendship that marked their early adventures. Later on, this lightheartedness will become colder, as to be expected after Delita goes on the warpath to become king. 

Note that Ramza is a better healer than a fighter. I did not make this decision lightly; the intent was to show that he's a more empathic person than Delita. When I went through the game for the fourth or fifth time, I had already formulated this idea that Ramza is more suited to being a "healer" than a "warrior." When I say healer, I don't just mean White Mage. I mean spiritual advisor, caretaker, and nurturer. He's the kind of leader who'd give out private pep talks to his troops. So to symbolize this, I made him a skilled healer.

And yes, because Boco is here, that means the Boco fight will not appear. It was random to begin with. Let's excise it to make my authorial life easier!

Anti-Algus Note: I hate Algus. He's the prince of total prick-ery. All you Algus fans—I'm sure he has redeeming qualities. All you anti-Algus folks—let's torch the bastard at Zeakden (heh).

Zalbag Note: I don't know why, but he always reminded me of Patrick Stewart in Jean-Luc Picard mode. Expect Star Trek references and shirt tugs.

Dycedarg Note: He's a bastard. We know it and love him for it. I tried to take it one step further. Let's love him some more.

**Chapter Two: Idealism**

The plains of Mandalia were largely considered to be the finest and most abundant land throughout all of Ivalice. One of the major reasons why Gallione fared so well during and immediately after the Hundred Years' War was because of the vast stores of grain it possessed thanks almost entirely to the fertility of the Mandalia Plains.

Ramza was well-acquainted with the area, for the Beoulve fiefdom stretched into the heart of the plains. Many idyllic summers were spent in the clan's countryside villas. Delita and his sister, Teta, would come under the pretense of being Ramza and Alma's servants. In truth, they came as friends and adopted siblings, for they would play from sunup to sunset on the flatlands, through the grasses, and atop the few hills and rock outcroppings that dotted the otherwise level landscape.

This day, Ramza and Delita rode their chocobos through the verdant fields at a leisurely pace, the two youths both lost in the pleasant memories of their childhood. Suddenly, Delita jerked back on the reins, bringing his mount to a halt. He bent over and plucked a long blade of grass from among the wildflowers and brought it to his lips. A tinning whistle issued forth, bringing a smile born of recollection from Ramza's lips.

Delita grinned back. "Do you remember how your father showed us this trick?" He offered the grass to Ramza.

The blonde nobleman nodded. "I remember that you picked up on it much faster than Alma, Teta, or I did." He blew on it expertly, achieving the same tinning. But then it faltered and became a hiss. He set the impromptu instrument aside and gave a carefree smile of regret. "I never could keep it up as long as you could, though. But then again, you were always a fast learner." Ramza spoke heartily, cheerfully, as if mentioning some commonly known fact. His easy nature hinted at no jealousy, no indignation that he could not be as good at Delita at anything.

Delita noted this—he had noted it for as long as he knew Ramza. For Ramza Beoulve was the kind of person who never harbored a grudge, nor dipped his hand into envy, nor could think an evil thought of any man. Where Delita strove to hide his anger, Ramza simply could not feel any at all. He seemed pure of sin of any kind, for he was the truest innocent Delita had ever known.

"Ramza, tell me something," Delita probed carefully. "If you could become anything in the world, what would you be?"

"Huh?" his friend queried in confusion.

"What would you be?" Delita pressed. "What ambitions do you have? You know that I want to become a knight or a general—I've told you that was my dream since I was admitted into the Academy. But you've never told me what you wanted out of life."

"Well…."

"Well?"

Ramza chuckled, which evolved into a hearty laugh. He threw his head back, overcome with mirth. "What's so funny?" Delita asked, stupefied by this sudden change.

When Ramza finally regained control of himself, he answered, "To tell you the truth, I don't really want anything out of life. I guess I'm just talking like a spoiled child, but I'm happy right where we are. Father wanted me to be a knight, before he died. Dycedarg and Zalbag both expect it of me as it is. I think even Alma wants me to be part of the military, like a commander or something, even though she's a pacifist.

"Me? I've never really had the ambition to be anything other than just me. And I'm just not very good at fighting to begin with. You're the better swordsman, the better strategist, the better at anything you put your mind to. I can't measure up to that. But that's all right, because I don't want to be Ramza the Knight or Ramza the General. Delita the General sounds a lot more intimidating, don't you think?"

Delita frowned. "You shouldn't make jokes." But then he smiled. "But you're right about my name sounding more intimidating. What was Balbanes thinking when he named you Ramza? Sounds like a sneeze."

The sneeze punched him playfully on the arm.

The scream of the dying interrupted their banter.

"Where'd that come from?" Ramza wondered, scanning the empty field.

Delita, whose hearing and eyesight were much more attentive than Ramza's, already pinpointed the source. "Follow me," he said, bringing his chocobo into a run.

Ramza kicked his into motion. "Let's go, Boco!"

When the pair arrived at the scene, they found six highwaymen surrounding an overturned carriage. The chocobos that pulled it had been slain and lay alongside four dead knights who bore the silver cloaks of Limberry. Four more highwaymen were riding chocobos into the horizon, carrying with them a silver-haired man.

Of the carriage's escort, only one survived: a blonde youth who clutched at his bleeding side in pain.

"We have to help!" Ramza declared, drawing his sword.

Delita, however, was not so quick to act. He quietly surveyed the battlefield, noting a pile of rocks near the carriage that was close to their position. It offered a direct path to the wounded youth and to the bulk of the six highwaymen. "That way," Delita said, pointing. "We can take them by surprise."

Just as Ramza was about to urge Boco into a charge, Delita grabbed the reins. "Ramza," he said seriously, "are you going to be all right?" The pallor of Ramza's face at Gariland was too fresh in his mind to be shaken loose just yet.

Ramza knew that this was what his friend was thinking and nodded. "I can handle it, Delita. I don't like killing—I know that already—but I'm not going to stand by while someone gets killed either. I know, that doesn't sound terribly logical to me either, but I can't help but feel that way."

"Whatever helps you through a fight," Delita said with a shrug, kicking his mount into a charge.

The two rode behind the rocks, thankfully unnoticed by the enemy. Now that they were close, they could clearly make out the crude stitching on the highwaymen's cloaks—they were Death Corps. They could also see the heraldry on the carriage. Not only was the carriage from Limberry, but it was the private conveyance of Marquis Elmdor, ambassador of Limberry!

"You were right about the Death Corps," Ramza mused. "The silver-haired man must have been the marquis. We have to save him as soon as we defeat these men here."

Delita nodded his assent. "Time is of the essence, Ramza. We have to strike fast and strike hard."

Then the time for talk was over. They pair charged forth, their war cries alerting the Death Corps to their attack, but also striking fear into their hearts. Boco and Delita's chocobo trampled two of the six into their graves, while the two cadets' blades opened the throats of yet two more. The surviving Death Corps soldiers turned tail and ran, hoping to avoid the cold touch of death.

But Delita shouted, "Ramza! Take care of them—I'll save the marquis!" With that, he called, "Hya, hya!" and sent his mount into an all-out run.

Now it was up to Ramza to handle the retreating Death Corps. He urged Boco into a run and then had the strong bird slide into one of the soldiers, knocking him flat to the ground with enough force to snap his neck. Taking advantage of the turn, Ramza thrust his sword deep into the belly of the final highwayman. The fallen foe gripped the blade in his naked hands, a silent scream forming an O on his frozen lips. Then he fell off the tip and collapsed.

Shuddering in revulsion, the young noble quickly wiped his blade clean and sheathed it before going to the aid of the fallen escort guard. When Ramza turned the semiconscious youth over to inspect his wounds, the noble was surprised to see that the guard was no longer than he was. But he pushed these thoughts aside when he saw the severity of the injury: a knife blade had been lodged in the youth's upper rib cage, dangerously close to the heart.

Ramza hurriedly—but carefully—stripped the youth of his armor and tunic and then gently pried the knife free. This sent an agonized shudder through the patient's body as well as issuing forth a renewed gout of blood from the wound. But Ramza took this in stride. Field medicine was one of the few subjects that he excelled in at the Academy. Lacking the proper tools, he had to improvise. Ripping up his tunic, he wadded several strips and pressed them hard against the wound. Then he took longer strips and bound them tightly around the youth's torso. Hopefully, the injury would not become infected until Delita returned so that they could carry the injured youth to a safe haven.

Nearly half an hour later, Delita returned, his armor and sword soaked with fresh blood. He looked haggard and frustrated. "I killed two of them, but the others put up a big fight," he said tiredly. "They got away with the marquis."

Ramza pounded the grass with his fist. "Damn!"

"Don't worry though," Delita continued. "I saw where they were heading. They were passing Igros and started cutting through the country to the east, avoiding the main roads. The only major city in that area would be Dorter. I recall that Tallondale made mention of Death Corps sympathizers holing out there." Then the commoner turned his chin at the wounded youth. "How's he doing?"

"Bad. This man needs real medical attention," Ramza said. "I can't do anything here without some kind of painkiller and a disinfectant."

Delita cast a look around the field again and then said, "Painkillers and disinfectants, right? Wait here." He dismounted his chocobo and started rummaging around the bases of the rocks and then in the patches of wildflowers. Moments later, he returned, carrying an armful of roots, grasses, and flowers. "Help me pound these," he said. "Get those rocks and bring them here; we'll use them as a mortar and pestle."

Ramza grunted at the work, grinding the herbs into a messy pulp. "Where'd you learn about foraging and herb-lore?"

"Well, Teta got sick once and I had to ask one of the druggists," Delita huffed, moving the stone around. "I obviously couldn't buy any of his expensive medicines, but he was kind enough to tell me how to make a few of them. I'm not good at making medicine, though. Your father ended up mixing the herbs after I found them. He told me that if I messed up the proportions, I'd have made a poison instead of a cure."

"That's true enough," agreed Ramza. He set aside the stone and picked up a large dollop of the mix. "I recognize some of these plants, at any rate. They really are poisonous, if not used correctly. Here, now—take off his bandages and cut up my tunic into fresh strips. I'll apply the salve."

Afterwards, they waited for the young guard to awaken. By the time night fell, after Delita had built a fire and hunted up some rabbits for dinner, the patient awoke to the smell of roasting coney. A great rumbling of the stomach alerted Ramza and Delita to their patient's health.

"Here, eat this," Ramza said, offering a dish to the wounded youth, who hungrily tore into it. "Well, you've recovered well," the noble laughed heartily. Then he tore into his own food with eager relish.

"What's your name?" Delita asked, taking only the smallest and most controlled bites of meat.

The guard swallowed a mouthful of rabbit and answered, "My name is Algus, a cadet of the Limberry division of knights. It seems I must thank you for saving my life."

"Don't mention it," Ramza said jokingly, "after all, saving you just meant getting into a big fight and giving up some of our food."

Algus looked at him in astonishment, while Delita jabbed him in the ribs. "Forgive him, he's always like that after dire straits," the commoner explained. "His name is Ramza Beoulve, by the way. I'm Delita Hyral."

But Algus was not listening. He sat up in surprise. "Beoulve? _The_ Beoulve? You are the son of the Holy Knight Balbanes, who was called the Holy Swordsman? It is an honor to meet a fellow noble of such high standing as yours!"

"You are noble as well, Algus?" Ramza inquired in an attempt to deflect the gushing praises due his family's name. In all honesty, he did not like how people fawned after him just because he was related to Balbanes; his father's exploits were not his own, so, to his thinking, his father's praises should not be his.

Algus nodded fervently. "I am." Then he became crestfallen. "At least, I was. It's a long story. At any rate, I've been granted the honor of guarding the Marquis Elmdor of Limberry, so my family's name will be—wait…the marquis! Where is he?"

Delita shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "The Death Corps who attacked you escaped with him. I managed to kill most of them, but they still managed to get away."

"How could you fail?" Algus shouted. "My life—the life of all the knights here—mean nothing compared to Marquis Elmdor's! You are nobles—knights of Gallione, or at least cadets, by your dress and armor—are you not? How could you stand to fail your ally, the marquis?" By now, Algus was making the verbal attack not on just on Delita, but both cadets.

"We tried our best," Delita said stiffly. He did not much care for Algus' haughty tone, and it showed. "And for the record, I'm not a noble. Ramza is. I'm just the one who killed the most Death Corps." He said the last with pride—which made Ramza look at him in surprise, for Delita was taking pride in killing.

But if a kill count was supposed to impress Algus, it failed to do so. He merely glared at Delita with contempt. "A commoner? No wonder you failed. If the Beoulve there had gone after the marquis, I'm sure it would have been different. Kill as many as you like, but if you fail to protect a superior officer, you're just as low as dirt. But you're already that low, aren't you?"

That made Delita spring up angrily, but Ramza intervened, pushing his friend back down. He looked at Algus warningly. "That was uncalled for," he said hotly. "Delita did more than you or I could ever do! He defeated the Death Corps and helped save your life. Yes, he failed to save the marquis and that must hurt him like a sword to the heart, but to call him on it when he gave it his utmost is beyond rude. Apologize, Algus."

There was something about Ramza's spirited words, words spoken from the depths of his heart, that penetrated even Algus' prejudices. Surprisingly, the young guard said quietly, "Sorry. I was out of line." More loudly, he said, "I owe you my thanks, Delita, for not only coming to a wounded man's aid, but you valiant attempt to render service to Limberry."

"Apology accepted," Delita murmured guardedly. Then he sat up straight and declared, "You must seek the marquis' safe return, I imagine? Please, come with us to Igros Castle, where we are to be stationed. It's a bit out of the way, as the Death Corps seem to be taking the marquis to Dorter, but I assure you that help can be found among Prince Larg's forces at the castle. With the aid of Igros' Hokuten Knights, the marquis will be saved."

With a plan of action in mind, Ramza encouraged that the three of them catch some rest, especially Algus, who needed more time to recover. The next morning, the three cadets made ready for their journey to Igros, which loomed close on the horizon.

* * *

Zalbag ran a hand through his prematurely balding hair. Baldness was a trait that ran in his family. Balbanes had it and Dycedarg inherited it to a lesser degree; Zalbag had taken it on in full, for he never could grow more than a few quarters of an inch since his childhood. Perhaps that was why he was so proud of the goatee he proudly sported on his chin, to make up for the lack of hair.

But such were idle thoughts and it was unbecoming for a Holy Knight to entertain idle thoughts when work was to be done. He reviewed the past week's reports from the various border outposts and checkpoints throughout Gallione and Limberry, where the Hokuten and their Limberry allies were hard at work in controlling the audacious attacks of the Death Corps.

But no matter how hard he tried, no matter the stratagems he devised, Zalbag Beoulve could not pinpoint the Death Corps base's location. For the Death Corps learned early on that mobility was the safest way to maintain their anonymity. Since they relied so much on guerilla strikes, it was possible that they had no main headquarters—just dozens of small forts, like the ones Zalbag's forces have been hunting down.

With a sigh, Zalbag finished reading the reports and turned to other matters. He picked up a file on an up-and-coming face just recently promoted to the coveted rank of Holy Knight. Surprisingly, it was a woman by the name of Agrias Oaks. He knew well the Oaks family's reputation for brave knights—many of them Holy Knights like Agrias—as well as the beauty of their women. But never in all his years had he heard of an Oaks female taking up a sword. Indeed, he had never heard of a woman being inducted into any rank of knighthood, much less into the elite.

"She must be a most remarkable lady," Zalbag concluded. Unlike many others of his station, he was more liberal-minded and did not see anything inherently wrong with a female knight in the ranks. He was certainly more liberal than his older brother, Dycedarg, who had just a few hours ago railed on him for being lenient with a crew of shiftless guards. A knock on his office door interrupted his train of thought.

"Enter," he commanded. A squire meekly opened the door. "What is it?"

"One Ramza Beoulve has come to report in," the squire answered. "I believe he is your brother, sir?"

Zalbag bolted to his feet, the unusual case of Agrias Oaks gone from his thoughts. "Ah, Ramza! Excellent, most excellent. I will be down presently."

The Holy Knight stood and left his offices, only to meet his half-sister on the steps. Alma's young face was flushed with excitement, for she, too, had heard of her brother's arrival. "Alma, do not be so hasty," Zalbag chided playfully. "If you run into Ramza like that, you're liable to knock him off the steps!"

Alma beamed at her half-brother. Zalbag was clearly the half-brother she favored, her love for him second only to the care she held for her full brother, Ramza. "I shall strive to curb my enthusiasm, dear brother. Come now—Teta's already downstairs. Ramza will be waiting for us regardless of whether I knock him down or not!"

"Teta—so Delita is here as well," Zalbag noted. "Good. I'd like a chance to speak with them both."

The siblings went into the courtyard of Igros Castle, where they found not two, but three, young men clad in armor and weapons. The dirt of the road was fresh on their boots and on the talons of their chocobo mounts, which were being taken away by the castle's stablehands.

Teta, who was already wrapped in her brother's arms, managed to free a hand to offer a wave to Alma and Zalbag. Alma waved back and then saw Ramza. She rushed toward him and leaped into an embrace, almost knocking him over as Zalbag predicted.

Once Ramza extricated himself from his excited sister's affections, he smiled warmly at his half-brother. "You look well, Zalbag."

The Holy Knight tugged his shirt straight self-consciously and scratched at his goatee. "As do you, Ramza, considering that you look like something the cat dragged in. It seems you've had your share of adventure on the road."

"We had two run-ins with the Death Corps," Delita supplied perfunctorily. "Once in Gariland and the other on the Mandalia Plains, which is the matter we wish to discuss with you."

The seriousness of Delita's tone made Zalbag's brows frown in concern. "Would that also be the reason why you brought a guest?" he asked, indicating Algus.

"Yes," said Ramza. "It's of the utmost urgency, brother." He pushed Alma to arms' length, saying to her, "Sorry, this will take a while. I'll catch up with you later. Delita, could you entertain our sisters in my absence? Algus and I will talk to Zalbag on the matter."

Delita, all too happy to spend more time with Teta, agreed. He led the girls into the castle proper, but Alma turned a slightly unhappy look toward Ramza. The blonde noble only waved her off reassuringly.

Once the three had left, Zalbag turned to the matter at hand. "What have you to report?" he said coolly.

It was Algus who supplied the explanation. "Lord Zalbag Beoulve," he began respectfully, "my name is Algus of the Limberry Knights—a cadet, like your brother Ramza. Four other knights and I were assigned to escort Marquis Elmdor to Igros Castle, as per his ambassadorial mission. The Death Corps attacked us and captured the marquis. I fear that he will be held for ransom or even killed! Please, aid Limberry in its time of need, on your honor as a knight of God and a Beoulve!"

Zalbag quietly thought over the situation. Limberry needed help, to be sure, but the Hokuten—indeed, all the knightly orders in Gallione and Limberry—were tied up with suppressing the Death Corps. The marquis was indeed a prominent figure and a powerful ally of Prince Larg, but there simply was not enough manpower to make an active search without giving the Death Corps an opportunity to attack.

Finally, the Holy Knight came to a decision. "We will convene in the library in an hour. Ramza, I want you to bring Delita with you. You will meet Dycedarg and I at six o' clock this afternoon."

* * *

Teta clung to Delita's arm as if preventing a bird from flying away.

"Teta, my arm's starting to hurt," her brother said with a kindly smile reserved just for her. The younger Hyral blushed and released his offended limb.

"She's just happy to see you," Alma said with a laugh. "I know I'd probably tear off Ramza's arm if he tries to leave without saying goodbye again. At least you're kind enough to say your farewells to Teta every time you leave."

"You should forgive Ramza that," Delita admonished. "He thinks of you always; you're his closest friend and companion, you know. Even above me."

Teta smiled. "But even so, he shouldn't be so forgetful as to not say his farewells. Delita? Are you all right?" Concern carved its way into her young face, for she saw her brother's pained gaze as he looked at the castle's high walls. "You look very pensive. Is something the matter?"

Delita came to and shook his head vigorously. He had been thinking about just how high the castle's walls were…and how far he would have to climb to surmount them. "I'm fine, Teta. I've just been a little exhausted, that is all. It has been a grueling and taxing few days."

"I can imagine," said Alma. "Zalbag mentioned that you're training at the Academy is about complete and that they're now sending everyone on patrol or even guard duty."

The trio walked out of the courtyard and into the gardens, finding respite from the afternoon sun under the shade of cherry trees. When Balbanes lived, he would take Ramza, Alma, Delita, and Teta to this very garden, for he would often come to Igros for this or that mission. It was here that the four children would play hide-and-seek or tag or even ball, using the trees to make an obstacle course out of the simple game.

Those were quiet and happy times, before Delita had entered the whirlpool of caste and prejudice. Before the Academy and Tallondale and Algus. Before all of that. A part of him wished he could still live that sheltered life. Another part reproached him for his weakness—if he wanted to scale walls, he needed to learn how to fall down first.

The three walked through the gardens and spoke of little things. Schooling for Alma and Teta at the Igros College for Girls. Rumors filtering in through the grapevine. They even talked about Teta's crush on an attractive young lad who delivered the milk at the college. That last bit was reported by Alma, rose a blush from Teta to the roots of her hair, and drew a narrow-eyed gaze from overprotective Delita.

But then the hour stuck six, and soon it would be time for the meeting with Dycedarg. Delita began to bid his sister and his friend farewell. He gave Alma a quick hug and gave Teta an even longer one. "I will be done with the meeting swiftly, sister," he promised into her thick brown hair.

"I trust in your word, brother." With that, she disengaged herself and headed toward the college's dormitories.

But Alma did not immediately follow. Her face was pensive, her demeanor concerned.

This was not lost on Delita, whose usual alertness was only heightened in manners concerning Teta. "Is something wrong?"

"You don't know what an understatement that is," Alma murmured.

"What's happened?" he demanded urgently.

The girl shook her head. "Nothing threatening like the Death Corps, that's for sure, but in some ways just as damaging. They make fun of her at the college, you know—the other girls. It's because Father was the one who sponsored her, a commoner." She looked at him with sad, yet strangely mature, eyes. "You know it too, do you not? At the Gariland Academy, they must put you through the same trials."

Delita was amazed by how accurate she was. While Ramza was the elder of the two full-blooded siblings, it was Alma who was the more mature and the more aware of others' deepest feelings. This young girl seemed to read him like a book and understood his frustrations. "I wish there were something I could do for Teta," he admitted with so much self-loathing that it frightened even him. His fists clenched tightly. "But I'm powerless. I can't even help myself."

Alma clutched his hand in hers. "You do the best you can, Delita. That's more than any sister could ask of her brother. She loves you, and as long as she can have that, she'll be strong. You shouldn't underestimate a Hyral's strength. I know Ramza doesn't, and I certainly do not."

* * *

Dycedarg Beoulve was a stark contrast to both his father, Balbanes, and his younger brother, Zalbag. This does not even mention the polarity in personalities between him and his half-brother, Ramza. Where Balbanes and Zalbag were men of indisputable character, skill, charisma, and intelligence, Dycedarg was all the more so—except for his character.

Ambitious and driven, the duplicity inherent in his crafty demeanor twisted his skill into ruthlessness, his charisma into manipulation, and his intelligence into cunning. But on the outside, he seemed as devout, respectable, and admirable as the late Balbanes. As an outward show of just how like Balbanes he was, Dycedarg wore the sword the Holy Swordsman once carried, a treasured blade whose legend was as great as its former wielder. None could suspect that Dycedarg wore it for another, subtler reason.

Thus, when Ramza saw his eldest sibling wearing his father's sword with such majestic pride, he felt his heart ease. He brought Delita and Algus into the library, where the three of them sat opposite Dycedarg and Zalbag. The silence soon gave way to the business at hand.

"Limberry's situation is grave indeed," said Dycedarg coolly, "but I'm afraid we simply do not have the manpower to spare to directly aid the marquis in the manner prescribed. Neither does Limberry," he added pointedly when Algus was about to argue. "Neither country is in a position to give the Death Corps any openings. Therefore, I offer an alternative stratagem. Zalbag?"

The other brother took his cue. "Ramza, Delita, Algus—you three will remain here to guard the castle. I will take a complement of drafted men to compose a strike force. Since you have so readily provided their destination, we will lay a trap at Dorter with the knights that were stationed there." He smiled assurance at Algus, who seemed beside himself with worry. "Do not fear, Cadet Algus. Elmdor will be returned safely. Let it not be said that a Beoulve breaks his word or fails to protect those he would call friend!"

Unnoticed by them as Dycedarg's dark, disapproving frown at the age-old sobriquet.

Later, after the three cadets had been dismissed to the barracks, Dycedarg further entertained Zalbag in the library. "What do you think?" he asked suddenly.

Zalbag, who had brought with him his reports, looked up from his reading curiously. "What do you mean?"

"Ramza," the elder brother said simply.

"Ah. Well, he's certainly grown up some in four years. He's eager and determined. Indeed, I'd say he looks more like Father and you or I ever will—except for the fact that _he'll_ probably never lose his hair, not with Ruglia as his mother. And I do not just mean he looks like Father in terms of appearance, either. He has Father's spirit in him. He isn't fettered by politics or image. He does as he likes, and it's always to help others. Father always wanted to be like that."

Dycedarg allowed himself a hollow and bitter laugh. "So you see that Ramza is still idealistic too, do you not? Father instilled that into him, forgetting the lessons he himself learned in his life: idealism alone cannot save a man! Ramza needs to learn that."

"What are you getting at, brother?"

Dycedarg stared out the window, where he had a clear view of the barracks. Ramza and Delita were conversing animatedly with their sisters, who had come to visit. The four of them looked so pristine and innocent, so peaceful and idyllic. It made his stomach wrench with disgust at their collective naivete.

"What I'm getting at, brother mine, is that Ramza's still a fool. I prayed that the Academy would ring the stupidity out of him. But I see that it failed."

Zalbag was taken aback by this declaration, but he said nothing. For though he disagreed with the intensity of Dycedarg's assessment, he admitted that there was a small kernel of truth in it.

"It is of no consequence as of yet," Dycedarg continued, "but if Ramza is to become a knight of our clan, then he must learn and must mature. Even Father eventually learned that saving people with your sword alone amounts to nothing—not when the power of a prince could save hundreds with a word!" He spoke this last bit about Balbanes with utter contempt and disappointment. "But even Father never could understand power," he murmured. "Though he learned the dangers of it, he never could see past his own idealism."

"Ramza will not be so," Zalbag countered confidently. "He is the truest Beoulve I've ever seen. Surely he will learn. He is strong—in spirit, if not in body or mind. I say we let Ramza prove himself, Dycedarg. Be not so quick to judge him so harshly."

Dycedarg looked at his brother with poorly-hidden scorn. "Think like that, Zalbag, and I may need to call _your_ maturity into question as well." With that, the eldest Beoulve left the library, leaving his brother to mull over those heated words.


	4. Chapter 3

Author's Notes: This chapter is divided up into a lots of little sections. The main reason is that a lot of the latter half of the Death Corps saga was really just a bunch of meaningless fights that should have been a lot shorter. Thus, I crammed a majority of these minor battles in one chapter. More of Dycedarg's bastardness and Algus' prick-ery.

**Chapter Three: The Death Corps**

The day after their arrival at Igros, Ramza, Delita, and Algus were on the training field practicing sword drills. Eventually, the drills turned to sparring with padded armor and padded weapons. Surprising to Algus, but unsurprising to Ramza, Delita was beating them both at once, using everything from swords to daggers to quarterstaves to axes. It seemed that nothing could defeat Delita, not even fatigue. Indeed, after only a few hours on the training floor, Delita was the only one of the three who was not breathing hard.

"Just…can't keep…up with you…Delita," panted Ramza tiredly. His arms were on fire from swinging around the practice weapons and his hands were numb from blocking his friend's powerful blows. But despite his defeat, Ramza was in good cheer and high spirits. After all, it was only exercise, and quite an enjoyable session at that.

Algus took the defeat less gracefully. He seemed outraged that a commoner defeated him. The only thing keeping him from calling Delita out was the fact that he was standing on the ground of Igros Castle, where he—as a Limberry cadet—was a foreigner. Protocol alone prevented him from challenging Delita to a duel of honor where pride was at stake…a duel he probably would have lost.

As it was, Algus gave the commoner a grudging look that was between respect and contempt. Delita, accustomed to such glares, just took it stoically.

"Whew," Ramza said with a sigh, lying flat on his back and resting his head on the grass. "It's incredible how boring it is around here. You know we've been sparring for the past five hours straight? God above, there's absolutely nothing to do here!"

"Is he always that way?" Algus asked Delita in the closest way he could to politeness.

The commoner shrugged an affirmative.

Algus looked at Ramza again. "He must live a very happy life if he can be so carefree," he concluded.

"He's right though," Delita admitted. "There isn't much to do here. I'm sure you'd agree that you'd want to be out looking for the marquis yourself, right?"

"This is so," said Algus. "But I dare not leave my post—and neither should you two. The disgrace any form of failure can bring on your family is a hard thing to live with. I should know." He sighed and sat down. "I haven't known you two for very long, but I think I can trust you with this. When we first met I mentioned that I was no longer a nobleman. Technically, I still am, but only in name; the respect due my station was stripped from my family after my father betrayed his company during the war. He was found out, publicly humiliated, and executed. Stripped of knighthood and title, he died a commoner.

"My family paid the price as well. Much of our estate, added by martial exploits during the war, were taken from us, leaving us with only a single small castle. The fiefs grew smaller and smaller and the serfs were claimed by other lords. Our lands lay fallow and the homesteads stopped producing wheat and produce for the market. The servants left after our coffers became too poor to pay them. My family line, unblemished for two hundred years, died into obscurity. I am the last male heir, the one on whose shoulders lies the rejuvenation of my clan."

Algus looked imploringly at Ramza. "You are Beoulve. You must know the pressures of rank as a member of the most respected of the warrior families. Are you not encouraged to be a knight? Are you not expected to excel in all things of warfare and to overcome all enemies? Are you not demanded to prove your mettle, your chivalry, and your honor?"

Taken aback by this impassioned string of questions, Ramza could only dumbly reply, "I am…Yes, I am."

Algus smiled warmly. "Then you know well my position. I cannot do anything that would jeopardize what little honor my family has."

"But if you participated in saving the marquis, wouldn't this improve your standing?" Delita ventured.

Algus had already thought of that possibility. "It would, but the risk would be too great."

"So you, who were so eager to deride me for my failure on the plains, will now meekly sit in a barracks—simply because your honor is no longer on the line," Delita accused quietly.

Algus veritably exploded, and not even the mediator in Ramza could quell it. "Commoner! Bumpkin! What do you know of honor?"

"Enough to know that you're just being a coward!" Delita retorted. "If you want to save the marquis—even if it's just to improve your selfish image and honor—then let's get going! Ramza, don't you want to save Marquis Elmdor yourself? Do you want to leave him to the mercy of the Death Corps?"

Now this was territory that Ramza Beoulve was comfortable in. "Of course I do," he said with almost heroic conviction…which immediately deflated. "But my brothers…."

"…will probably forget your transgressions if we save the marquis!" reasoned Delita. He looked at the two of them, one encouragingly and one in challenge. "Well? What say you?"

* * *

A small group such as theirs, traveling on fresh chocobos, easily out-marched Zalbag's team of draftsmen and Hokuten. Thus, they arrived at Dorter without being noticed.

Dorter, a crossroads, was naturally suited to being a trading city. Though officially of Gallione, Dorter freely catered to Gallione, Limberry, Fovoham, and Lionel. But on this inauspicious day, when the dark clouds gathered overhead and proud a black, ominous rain upon the streets, the trade city held little business. Shops closed and shutters were latched. The streets emptied, leaving it to the disreputable and homeless.

Algus was positively disgusted by it, for he felt it a grave insult for him to walk through the filth of such common rabble. In contrast, Ramza and Delita dealt with it with equal stoicism.

"This was a mistake," Algus said suddenly. "Dorter is huge—the Death Corps could be anywhere! They won't simply come out and—"

A nearby cry caught their attention.

"Why did Gustav do it?" came a harsh demand.

The three cadets sneak closer, catching a full view of what was transpiring. A group of darkly-clad men stood were towering over another in similar dress. A powerfully-built man with a too-square jaw picked him up and held him by the neck. "Where is Gustav?" the square-jawed man demanded. "Why did he kidnap Elmdor?"

The cadets looked up in surprise, for it seemed providence or Lady Luck was on their side.

The strangled man gurgled, "R-ransom! W-we need the money, Wiegraff!"

"Idiot!" the man, Wiegraff, shouted. "Now Gustav'll bring the whole damned Hokuten down on our heads! That fool! That moron! I must salvage this situation. Tell me—where is Gustav now? Where is he keeping Elmdor?"

The soldier managed to stutter, "S-sand r-rat's cellar!"

It was then that Wiegraff noticed the cadets. Realizing that they must have overheard him, he released the soldier and ordered to his men, "Kill those boys over there—they know too much by now. Rendezvous at the cellar. I must speak with Gustav immediately."

Even as Wiegraff fled into the night, the other warriors—ten Death Corps soldiers in all—drew blades and advanced. A few of them carried crossbows.

"Damn," Ramza cursed, seeing just how badly the odds were. In Gariland it had been almost equal, but three-to-one odds was downright suicide. "Delita, I hope you have a plan."

His friend, who was as composed and cold as marble, simply nodded. "Ramza, you and I will charge ahead and run interference. Algus, scale that short building there and strike from above."

"I don't take order from you!" Algus countered hotly.

Ramza cut in. "This isn't the time to argue! Do it!" The authority in his voice was surprising, for Ramza did not seem the kind of leader to inspire obedience. Yet, Algus found himself scaling the woodworker's shop with alacrity, even as Ramza and Delita made their near-suicidal charge at ten armed soldiers.

The battle was on in full, and almost immediately, the Death Corps surrounded the two friends. Ramza killed one, Delita three, but there were six left who were slowly whittling away the pair's defenses. But the Death Corps did not expect Algus, who dropped from the roof and plunged his blade into one soldier's back. With another stroke, he felled another man.

With the sides now roughly even, Ramza and Delita attacked with renewed vigor, cleaving the way to victory. Once the ten Death Corps soldiers lay dead, the cadets took stock of injuries. Fortunately, neither Ramza nor Delita had suffered any grievous wounds, save for a few sword wounds. Ramza quickly applied disinfectants to prevent the spread of tetanus and infection.

"Let's not do that again," Ramza joked as he finished bandaging Delita's arm.

"It seems we'll going right into it again," his friend said quietly.

"Yes. But where is this sand rat cellar?" Algus asked.

Delita, more knowledgeable about these things, explained. "During the war, there was a base camp in the Zeklaus Desert used by various forces as a staging ground for assaults on Gallione. The place became known as the sand rat cellar after the unique rat that was indigenous to the area. The cellar is basically an easily-defended fortress that can house up to thirty men."

"Then let's pray there aren't so many there right now," Ramza said grimly.

* * *

Gustav was, at first, pleased to see Wiegraff.

"Thank God you're here!" he exclaimed, wiping perspiration from his brow. "You can only imagine what I've had to go through to get Elmdor here safely. First, he had more guards than I was expecting, and then these kids show up and start massacring my men, and then—" Gustav was interrupted by a slap across the face.

"What the _hell_ did you think you were doing?" Wiegraff demanded hotly. "Why did you kidnap Elmdor? Money? Is that all we are, bandits? Gustav, you imbecile!"

"But Wiegraff! We need the money! You can't fight a war without money."

"Idiot!" Wiegraff roared. "Miluda is planning a raid on the Gallione Bank! Money would have been taken care of!"

"N-no one…told me…."

Wiegraff punched him across the jaw again. "That's because you're a moron. Now I have to clean up your goddamn mess. We've got Hokuten pounding on our door. They're just cadets, but they're already killing everyone up there. It seems that one of them is quite the swordsman." Wiegraff grabbed Gustav by the collar and slammed him against the wall. "We're going to lose the cellar, Gustav," he growled menacingly, and do you know why? It's because of your stupidity."

He released his lieutenant, who slumped limply to the ground. "Where is Elmdor, Gustav?"

"In…in the back. Tied up. I…I didn't hurt him or anything…."

"Good. You'd have been a complete idiot otherwise." Then, remorselessly, Wiegraff plunged his blade into Gustav's back. He left the corpse and went to free Elmdor.

The marquis saw the bloodied blade and narrowed his eye hatefully at the leader of the Death Corps. Wiegraff was impressed by his gusto and courage. "They certainly do not call you the 'Silver Ogre' for nothing, Elmdor," Wiegraff conceded. "One look into those eyes would scare most men out of their armor. But I'm not here to kill or ransom you. You're free."

Just as he cut the marquis' bonds, the three cadets burst in, faces, armors, and weapons stained with the blood of Death Corps. They panted tiredly, exhausted from battle, but upon seeing Elmdor, new vitality surged through them.

"Release the—" began one of the cadets, garbed in the colors of Limberry.

"I already have, boy," said Wiegraff. "Take your marquis and begone. The man responsible for his kidnapping is already dead. He acted insubordinately, without my permission, and for foolish reasons. The Death Corps are not bandits, Limberry! We are revolutionists! We will bring equality to the classes, and you nobles will pay for your indiscretions against the common man!"

"You're a coward and an animal!" retorted Algus, full of contempt. "You deserve to be ground under the heels of your betters, you filth! You swine!" He did not notice the darkening glare that Delita was shooting into his back at these words.

But the words did not faze Wiegraff. "You talk big, brat. I give you the offer one last time: begone, with your precious marquis. Refuse me again and I will not hesitate to kill you. And believe me, I am a far superior warrior than the men you killed at the gates."

Algus was about to challenge that, but Delita stopped him cold. "Let him go, Algus—he's telling the truth. This man will massacre us if we fought him. Let's just get the marquis out of here. Now!"

"I will not stand for his insults, Delita!" Algus countered. "I will see my honor purified!"

Ramza grabbed them both by the shoulders. "Enough, both of you! Let's go!" Again, the power of his voice was enough to compel his friends to obedience. The three left with a weakened Elmdor in their arms, leaving Wiegraff in the bloodstained halls of the sand rat's cellar.

* * *

"…and finally, you disobeyed a direct order, Ramza! I told you to stay here and guard the castle!"

Dycedarg was in a fury and Ramza was taking the brunt of it. But he was not alone under the eldest Beoulve's withering gaze. "Algus, you have shamed your country and the Knights of Limberry by abandoning your post!" Each word was like a stake being driven into the cadet's heart. "Be sure that I will be making a full report about your behavior to the master-at-arms!"

Delita was next, but he managed to maintain his impassive facade. "And you, Delita. I understand that it was by your encouragement that this foolishness was carried out?" Delita nodded, taking full responsibility. "Have you nothing to say?" Dycedarg demanded.

"Only that the marquis gave us his deepest thanks for our initiative," Delita said smoothly, almost too smoothly; Ramza recognized his friend's cunning, and suspected that Delita anticipated his brother's questions. Ramza silently applauded Delita's cleverness.

Even Dycedarg had the wind blown out of his sails with that comment. "Be that as it may," he said, returning to the offensive, "I cannot ignore that you committed a grievous act of irresponsibility unbecoming in future knights."

"Let them be, Dycedarg," said a new voice. The speaker, a tall and stately man dressed in rich robes, entered. The cadets, instantly recognizing Prince Bestrada Larg, fell to their knees. "Arise, future heroes of the Hokuten and Limberry," Larg said kindly. He leveled a calming gaze on Dycedarg. "We have need of such worthy and quick-thinking lads these days, Dycedarg. It would not do to berate them for qualities that will be needed in our future military leaders."

"Hmph. I would not put my trust in leaders who so callously disregard proper military etiquette," said Dycedarg. "They are clever and strong, I readily admit, but their impetuousness is far from being a virtue." He threw up his hands in exasperation. "But if you, Bestrada, insist on pampering them for their improprieties, I, as your _humble_ servant, can only allow you to do so."

Larg smiled. "Such sarcasm is unbecoming in a Holy Knight of the Rune, Dycedarg." He turned his attention to the three cadets. "Now, young heroes, I think you will be pleased to learn that I have spoken with the marquis, who has, in turn, spoke quite highly of you. Thanks to your bravery, the ambassadorial mission was a success and Gallione can expect the full support of Limberry in the eradication of the Death Corps."

Algus was positively beaming at these words.

"Furthermore," continued Larg, "the marquis has made a special request, one that I cannot deny in light of recent events. He has asked that the three of you be involved in a major assault on the Fortress of Thieves, where the Death Corps leader, Wiegraff, makes his home. Thanks to Zalbag's studious work, which has divined this location, you will most certainly find the headquarters of the Death Corps at the fortress."

"Thank you, Prince Larg!" exclaimed an astounded Algus, who bowed low. "Thank you for this great honor! As a cadet of the Limberry Knights, I am your humble servant, my liege! I will fell your foes to the quick with the honor that is mine!"

Large turned to Ramza. "And you, son of Balbanes? Are you so fervent as your ally here?"

Ramza, stunned at the attention, was all too aware that Dycedarg was giving him a dangerously expectant stare. He stammered quietly, "Er, yes…Yes, my liege. I-I, that is, I also accept this great honor. I-I only hope that I can be of service to you, as…as my father…once did." Dycedarg looked disappointed by this poorly-delivered speech, but Larg seemed placated by just the mention of Balbanes Beoulve.

"Then it is with the blessings of God and the White Lion that I, Bestrada Larg, send you onto this most important mission. Good luck, brave soldiers. Good luck, future knights!"

* * *

When they were alone, Dycedarg gave Larg was withering glare. "Must you pamper them with your melodrama, Bestrada? It was positively sickening. 'Future knights' indeed!" he spat contemptuously.

Larg dropped the pretenses of the kindly lord, falling into the coldness in which he felt so comfortable. He was a great deal like Dycedarg in that regard: both were men of cruelty, fueled by ambition and pride. "They did save the marquis, against all odds," said the prince. "I must say, despite their gullibility, I was quite impressed with them."

"Most people are," Dycedarg murmured. "A shame that their impressiveness is all luck and sham. They were fools to go up against someone as dangerous as this Wiegraff alone! Heaven alone knows how they survived an encounter with a former Death Knight like him. Damn that Ramza—he has inherited too much of Balbanes' stupidity in him!"

"You are so quick to slander your own father," Larg muttered.

"He deserves it, that fool," countered Dycedarg. "It is better that he lies beneath the earth. At least now we can proceed without his idealism to block us. You know that he would never approve of tactics like what we are using now. He would have given Wiegraff a fighting chance, perhaps even challenged the trickster to an honorable duel!"

Larg nodded in agreement. "I concede the point—Balbanes was, indeed, an idealist, which leads to foolish actions. But that is neither there nor here. Did you confirm Zalbag's report on Fort Zeakden?"

"Yes. Scouts have seen Death Corps troops filter in from the south. I can only surmise that they are going back and forth from the Fortress of Thieves."

"Then Zeakden is their last stronghold," Large reasoned. He smiled evilly. "Excellent. Now that we know the locations of all their bases—Dorter, the cellar, the Fortress of Thieves, and Zeakden—we can launch our assaults whenever we please. Within a week, the Death Corps will be no more."

* * *

The Fortress of Thieves lay on the northernmost borders of Gallione beyond a steep mountain pass near Lesalia. Home to mountain lions, goblins, and other equally dangerous denizens, it was a renowned spot for hearty adventurers to test their bravery and mettle. One could often find trappers taking a cat's pelt or a martial artist hunting goblins or feral chocobos.

But on this sunny day, three young cadets did their best not to arouse any attention. Whenever a hungry predator or a vicious goblin reared its head, they quickly dispatched it and disposed of the corpse, lest they alert any of the Death Corps' scouts to their approach. For in their minds they were all too aware that this was no longer the territory of the chivalrous and honorable.

And so they made their careful way up the sloping paths, entering a dried-up ravine overgrown with weeds and stout grasses. Ramza and Algus kept their hands on their sword-hilts, and Delita scanned the sides of the ravine with such alertness that he jumped at the merest glimpse of movement—whether it be only the scattering of rock rats or worse.

"This smells too much of an ambush," Algus growled darkly. "We should not have come this way." He made it sound accusatory, for it was Delita who opted for this quicker—albeit more dangerous—path.

"We'd have lost too much time," the commoner argued, keeping his voice low for the sake of stealth. "We do not know how much the Death Corps knows about the Beoulve's war plans. And speed will lend us the element of surprise when we attack."

Algus huffed, unconvinced. "I recall that it was _your_ bright ideas that earned us the ire of Dycedarg Beoulve!" the Limberrian shot back. "We were lucky Prince Larg vouched for our character, or else both myself and Ramza would have taken a heavy blow for your stupidity!"

This time, Delita moved like a viper, his hand instantly wrapping around Algus' throat before Ramza could intervene. "Say that again, I dare you!" he growled fiercely. "If it weren't for my so-called stupidity, that bastard Gustav would have killed or ransomed your lord! Show some gratitude, punk!" He threw Algus to the ground.

The Limberrian, furious at this humiliating treatment, was red to the roots of his hair. He bounded onto his feet and slugged Delita hard enough to knock out a tooth. "Don't you _dare_ touch me again, peasant!" he spat angrily. Just as Algus was about to continue the assault, Delita countered with a kick to the belly.

"Stop it, both of you!" Ramza shouted, trying to bring the two to their senses. He got between them, pushing them to arm's length. "We're in enemy territory, you fools! You'll alert any scouts in the area with your fighting! Stop it, I say!"

Suddenly, with more urgency and force than Ramza's words could ever muster, a crossbow bolt struck the ground. The three looked up and saw that the ravine edges were manned by Death Corps. Surprisingly, one of them was a woman who would have been beautiful if it were not for her hard-bitten demeanor.

"What have we here?" the woman drawled threateningly. "Pups come to hunt? If you are from the Hokuten, then the knighthood has certainly grown foolish—never have I heard them sending wolfhounds to do a wolf's work!"

Algus directed his earlier anger at this new foe. "You will regret these insults to my honor, woman! Come and face me like a warrior!"

The woman merely laughed mockingly. "The pup speaks such bold words! Since when did it become _chivalrous_ for a man to fight a woman, boy? I thought so. You're just a spoiled brat—well, let me tell you, kid: you're Hokuten, and you're not leaving this ravine alive."

She raised her sword high and shouted, "For the Death Corps!"

Delita immediately took charge of the seemingly insurmountable situation. "Ramza, Algus! To me and back-to-back. On the double!" His commanding voice brooked no argument, and even fiery Algus obeyed to the quick.

"But those archers…!" Ramza said worriedly, looking down no less than three crossbows aimed for them.

"Duck," Delita said simply. Then his words were cut off by the clash of blades, for the woman's forces had come down in force. A daring idea came into his mind. "Ramza, Algus—go into the fray! They won't shoot their own men! Go in, go in!"

Taking his own advice, Delita pushed into the ranks, his sword cutting open bellies and hacking off limbs. He fought desperately, blindly, knowing that if he slowed his assault by even a fraction of a second, that would be all the opening a Death Corps soldier needed to slide a yard of steel into his guts. Surprisingly, his suicidal charge inspired fear into his enemies, who hesitated to engage him. In such close quarters, it was difficult for them to retreat from his flashing blade, and they fell, one by one, to his skill.

In the thick of the melee, he knew not what became of Ramza or Algus. He could only pray that they, too, fared as well as he.

But Delita's confidence was soon shattered when his swing was halted by the heavy blade of the woman warrior. With a heave of her shoulders, the strong woman sent him sprawling to the dirt. "You're surprisingly adept with that toy, young soldier," she dryly praised. Her sword glimmered brightly in the midday sun. Delita was mesmerized by it. "You've killed a good number of my men today. For that, you've earned my respect. I'll kill you quick, nobleman."

She hacked at him, but Delita was not one to give up without a fight. With skill born of desperation, he blocked each stroke and scrambled to his feet. Again, he parried her blows aside with puissant ability; it seemed that they were equals in terms of fighting skill. "I'm no nobleman," Delita said suddenly, pushing away another strike. "I'm a commoner, like you!"

That took the woman by surprise. "What?" Her shock was enough to halt her assault.

Had it been any other foe, Delita would not have hesitated to strike her down. But in recent days, he began to wonder…was he all that different from the Death Corps? He tried to reach out to this woman. "I am Delita Hyral, a servant of the Beoulve family, who sponsored my admission into the Gariland Military Academy. But I am of common blood, like you! I know what is feels like to be oppressed, more so than you, probably, because I must see it every day in the faces of my fellow students."

"Then why stay with them?" the woman demanded. "Why fight alongside them? You are just like us—so join us! Help us rid Ivalice of their classes and wealth and prejudice! Your skill says much about you, and with someone like you in our ranks, we can surely attain victory."

Strangely—or not so strangely anymore—it sounded like a tempting offer. But Delita shook his head. "Violence will solve nothing, not without power to back it up, to enforce stability and order. Even if you defeat the knights, even if you take the crown, it will amount to nothing because we are—and let's face the truth here—we are only rabble. We've no real organization or power. Even the Death Corps will crumble from internal fighting. It's already started! Your leader, Wiegraff, slew his lieutenant Gustav for insubordination!"

"My brother did what he had to do!" the woman cried. "It was to keep the order in our troops!"

Delita was taken aback by her words. "Brother? He's your brother?"

The woman nodded. "You gave me your name, warrior. I will give you mine: I am Miluda, sister of Wiegraff and second lieutenant of the Death Corps." She drew her eyes across the bloodstained battlefield and saw that her troops were taking heavy damage despite their overwhelming numbers. But even so, they could defeat the cadets with little trouble, if she gave the word.

She raised a gauntleted hand. Immediately, her forces began a retreat.

Miluda gave Delita one last look. "I give you your life today, Delita Hyral. Remember my name and remember what I did for you this day. Remember that we commoners have to be united in order to change this world. I'm sure that you will come to see things our way!" With that, she, too, disappeared behind the ravine's edge.

Ramza and Algus regrouped with Delita, all three showing signs of injury and exhaustion. Thankfully, none of them received any serious wounds; most of the blood spilled on them was that of their enemies. "Why did they retreat?" Algus demanded, feeling cheated of an honorable victory. "Who was that woman? I saw you talking to her."

Delita looked down at the corpses slain by their hands. These people were just like him—commoners who wanted to be free of the arrogance and hauteur of the nobility. He started to wonder just why he kept on fighting for the sakes of people like Tallondale, who would not even acknowledge his skill, or Algus, who showed his disdain violently.

But these thoughts were quickly buried beneath the urgency of the mission. "Her name is Miluda," he answered. "She is the sister of Wiegraff. Yes—that surprised me too. But evidently, that woman is just as dangerous as her brother. They've retreated because she wanted to prove a point. At any rate, we must make all haste to the Fortress of Thieves. If her forces came here, then the defenses will be weaker there. If we're quick, we can take the fort before she can reinforce it."

* * *

Night came with a rainstorm by the time the three cadets reached the imposing Fortress of Thieves. Once a Gallionian keep, it was sacked and torched during the early days of the Hundred Years' War and intermittently became the home to squatters, bandits, and roving warlords. Now, it was the headquarters of the Death Corps. With its easily defendable walls and drawbridge, it was an ideal base for a hard-bitten band of rebels.

"This won't be easy," Ramza noted darkly. "With only the three of us here, any way we attack will be at a disadvantage."

Delita, the most tactically-minded of the two, could only agree; he saw no easy openings in the fort's defenses. His sharp eyes saw Miluda atop the battlements. He swore under his breath. "She beat us here. The fort's fully defended. Come, we must seek a higher vantage point, so that we can count their troops."

The three clambered onto a nearby hill that provided almost complete view of the fort's interior. "A dozen, by my estimation," he said with growing despair. "Four to one odds is too much for us."

"Are we to come all this way, only to turn back with our tails between our legs like curs?" Algus spat angrily. "I won't have it, Delita! These knaves insulted my honor by retreating—I will see reparations made in blood!"

Delita wanted to punch the bastard again, but at a calming look from Ramza, he only tightly replied, "If we rush in there without a plan, we'll be slaughtered." He could not help but add sharply, "And your precious honor won't save you then."

Ramza suddenly spoke up, "Delita—look there, to the east side of the fort. A grillwork grate, the sewage line of the fort! That's our way in!"

The three cadets jumped into the nearby river, moving under the cover of the rain and the night undetected. They reached the grate and used their knives to lever the rusty metal loose. Then they slipped into the sewage-laden tunnel, their sleeves to their noses to block the stench.

"By my guess," said Delita quietly, though his voice echoed in the tunnel, "we should be right under the main courtyard. Here! A maintenance grate. If we strike now, we'll have a few moments of surprise on them."

"Then kill as many of these dogs as you can," Algus said with venom. Without another word, he forced the grate open and climbed out. Within moments, all three were in the courtyard, so far undetected by their enemies.

Then they saw a patrol moving toward them. With a wild cry, Algus charged forth, cleaving his way through them before they could even draw steel. "For Limberry!" he called fearlessly.

In moments, the fortress was alerted to their presence, but the confusion that ensued gave the cadets the advantage. The only blood that spilled was that of the Death Corps.

As if by some bitter fate, Delita ended up crossing blades with Miluda again. "Why?" the woman demanded, seemingly betrayed. "You are one of us, and yet you strike us down with such dastardly tricks! Why, Hyral? Why betray your own?"

And Delita could offer her no explanation, for he, too, wondered the same.

But then her beautiful face contorted in agony as a sword blade erupted from her breast. She fell without a moan or a sigh, her hair spilling around her as surely as her lifeblood. Standing victoriously over her was Algus, who planted a domineering boot on her back.

"This is the price you dogs pay for your insults, woman," he declared to the corpse. "This is an act of divine providence."

Delita was shocked at what had happened. His limbs were cold, his eyes locked on Miluda's frozen visage. Then, animation returned to his features, morphing his expression into one of rage. Rage he directed at Algus. "Why did you stab her in the back?" he growled angrily. "Where was your honor then, Algus?" His fists trembled and his sword seemed to ache with desire to enter the Limberrian's heart.

"She is just an animal, Delita," the Limberrian said simply, as if this were a matter of fact. "You should know this well. This," he ground his heel into Miluda's still back, "is what happens to commoners who raise a hand against we who give them jobs and clothes and a place in their worthless lives. You owe us everything, Delita. Remember that."

At that moment, Delita wanted, more than anything else, to kill Algus. He looked around for Ramza, but his friend was on the other side of the fort, where he had faced off against three Death Corps soldiers and emerged victorious. Delita wished that Ramza were at his side now, to placate him and still the rage bubbling over in his tumultuous heart.


	5. Chapter 4

Author's Note: I combined the windmill battle with Zeakden. I wanted to get through the early stages of the story quickly, so I can focus on the more convoluted parts. Delita gets some badass speeches in this chapter. This is going to be a real short chapter.

**Chapter Four: And I Ran Away…**

When the three cadets returned to Igros Castle, they expected praise for the completion of their mission. But what they found instead was turmoil.

Zalbag met them at the gates, informing them of a dastardly scheme hatched by Wiegraff. The last of the Death Corps' sub-lieutenants, Golagros, raided Igros Castle with a small company of soldiers. In an attempt on Dycedarg's life, they struck down more than a dozen Hokuten Knights. Dycedarg and Zalbag fought them off, but not without a price. For Dycedarg had been horribly wounded and lay crippled for the next fortnight and, even worse, Teta had been abducted as a hostage to aid in Golagros' escape.

"They mistakenly believed she was a Beoulve," Zalbag told the cadets in tight, saddened tones. Like Ramza, he regarded the Hyrals as his own siblings. The loss of sweet, innocent Teta was a terrible blow to him. "But you have my word that we will save her."

Delita heard these words, but they did not touch him. He stormed out of the castle, buckling on his bloodstained sword and grabbing a fresh chocobo from the stables. Ramza caught up to him and forcefully pulled him out of the saddle. "Wait, Delita! Let's not rush into this blindly!" the blonde noble pleaded. But he was repulsed, for Delita shoved him to the side.

But Ramza would not be put back. "Stop, Delita—you'll be killed if you go now. Zalbag said he'll save her!"

"She's my sister, Ramza!" Delita roared. "I can't sit back and wait for someone else to rescue her! She's all I have, everything I love and cherish! I won't sit back—not while my blood is in the hands of the Death Corps!"

"I know how you feel, Delita," Ramza said mournfully. "I'd fall apart if something happened to Alma. But you've always been the smarter of the two of us. Use your head!" He smiled suddenly and grabbed the reins of a nearby chocobo. "If you're going to go wage war on Wiegraff, then you need to bring along some help."

Delita's eyes misted with unshed tears. "Ramza…." He coughed self-consciously. "I guess I was foolish; I can't go anywhere without you, can I?"

The two friends urged their mounts toward the gate, only to find Algus waiting for them. The Limberrian stood with arms crossed, as imperious as any nobleman.

Delita pointedly ignored him as he made his way through the gates. But Algus was not so easily put off. "He won't save Teta, you know," he said simply.

"What do you mean?" Delita demanded.

"Dycedarg," Algus answered. "He's a nobleman, a politician. He knows the score. It would be stupid to send a division out to save one common girl. The mission is paramount above that; they'll wipe out the Death Corps, and probably your sister as well. Not that it matters. She's just a commoner."

That was the last straw. Delita hopped off his mount, grabbed Algus by the collar, and railed on him. Each blow sent a shock of pain through his knuckles, but he was oblivious to it. All he cared about was crushing that snide grin off Algus' lips. With a final, powerful blow, Delita sent the Limberrian sprawling. The aristocratic face was torn apart and left a scarred and bleeding mass.

But Algus was still smiling. "You see? You're just an animal like that Miluda. You have no class, you have no honor. You called me punk—it is you who are the punk, Delita!"

"Shut up!" Delita shouted.

"Algus, that's enough!" Ramza added, his anger joining with his friend's. "You're not welcome here anymore. Get out!"

Algus got to his feet slowly, emphasizing that he was leaving of his own accord. "Fine. I can tell when I'm not welcome. By the way, check out Fort Zeakden, the last of the Death Corps strongholds. I overheard your brothers talking about an assault there. They also mentioned that was where Golagros was heading. You'll probably find the common girl there as well."

The two friends mounted their chocobos and sped off down the road.

* * *

Fort Zeakden, like the Fortress of Thieves, used to be a warrior outpost. Like its sister fortress, Zeakden fell into disrepair during the Hundred Years' War and passed into different hands over the years. Now all that was left of the mighty stronghold was the keep proper, for its walls had long since crumbled into useless rocks.

It was here, in this dismal domain, that Golagros nervously paced the highest towers of the keep. He eyed the girl he captured and the stacks of gunpowder against the wall. It had been a desperate plan, retreating to Zeakden in order to lure the Hokuten into a death trap. Hopefully, the remaining Death Corps leaders could escape their own trap before it consumed them all.

Then the door opened and Wiegraff entered. The two men shared a quick embrace, as befits fellow warriors. "I'm glad you returned safely," Golagros said. "After what I heard about Miluda…" he quickly ended that line of discussion, seeing the pain on his leader's face.

"Her sacrifice will not be in vain," Wiegraff said. He looked at the girl. "Wait…this is no Beoulve. The Beoulve child is a blonde. Who are you, girl?"

"T-Teta," she answered quietly. "I'm…I'm just a servant."

"A commoner?" Wiegraff said in wonder. He slapped his forehead. "Damn!" Golagros seemed to make for an apology, but Wiegraff stopped him. "No matter. It is forgivable; the circumstances were beyond your control, Golagros. Regardless, the Hokuten are already on the move. They will be here soon. Our plan is already underway. Soon, victory will be ours as we send the foul Hokuten to a fiery grave."

Wiegraff looked out the window, eagerly awaiting the march of the Hokuten Knights. Instead, he saw two youths marching toward him. He recognized them as the cadets who attacked the cellar. "What? What are they doing here? Where are the Hokuten?"

"An advance scouting party?" Golagros suggested.

"Perhaps, but would the Hokuten send mere children? No matter. Alert the guards, Golagros."

* * *

When Ramza and Delita reached Fort Zeakden, they found it in arms. But that was fine with them; it was not stealth they were after. It was not battle, either. All they wanted was Teta.

So the two cadets dismounted and boldly marched up the drawbridge, their hands far away from their swords despite the deadly glares they received from the enemy.

Wiegraff, curious about this unusual occurrence, appeared at the battlements with Golagros. He called down, "What is this, Hokuten pup?"

Delita returned, "My name is Delita Hyral. I come before you not as a soldier, but as a brother. You have a girl named Teta, a common-born child like yourself, who is my sister! Return her to me, I beg of you!"

Wiegraff, intrigued by this turn of events, signaled to Golagros, who brought the girl forward. Upon seeing her brother, Teta cried, "Brother!"

"Teta!" Delita was overjoyed that she was unharmed. He turned his attention to Wiegraff. "Please, release her to me—she is not a part of this!"

"I understand well the pain you must be going through, Hyral," said Wiegraff solemnly. "I myself have lost a sister."

Delita hung his head. "I know. I was there when she died." Seeing the surprise on the Death Corps leader's face, he said, "I fought her twice, and she told me all of your motives and your plans. I did not agree with her methods, but your dream, Wiegraff—I can believe in that dream as well! Wiegraff, you sister did not die in vain. But she was horribly and dishonorably murdered by a man I once called an ally, a man of Limberry. Know you this, Wiegraff: had it been in my power to do so, Miluda would be at your side right now, and she would implore you to return my sister to me."

Moved by his words, Wiegraff found himself believing in this charismatic young warrior. "I sense the truth in your words, Hyral. Wait a moment, and your sister will be—" Suddenly, two crossbow bolts fired out of the distance, stabbing Wiegraff in the shoulder and Golagros in the chest.

A third bolt flew, striking Teta in the throat. Time stood still.

"_TETA!_" Delita cried in shock. He and Ramza turned at the archer. To their shock, they saw Algus, the spent bow in his hands. Beside him was a troop of Hokuten Knights.

"Algus!" Ramza cried. "What the hell are you doing? Why did you shoot Teta?"

Algus shrugged. "She was in the way. Your brother, Dycedarg, gave me the chance to prove my worthiness as a knight. He told me, 'Defeat the Death Corps at any cost.' Any cost, Ramza, means that I am fully within my rights to do as I please. Now, stand aside like a good boy and let me win victory over these peasants."

But Algus had barely finished his declaration when Delita slashed at him. The crossbow shattered. "Monster!" Delita cried with tears streaming down his cheeks. "Bastard! Murderer! I'll kill you, Algus! You're head is mine!" With a thunderous blow, Delita Hyral plunged his blade into Algus' black heart.

"Delita," Ramza warned, "the Hokuten! Watch out, they're attacking!" But Delita held his ground, even against so many skillful opponents. But preoccupied as he was, blinded by rage and anguish as he was, it fell on Ramza to see divine the plot that Wiegraff and Golagros were hatching. He saw the two men enter the keep, saw Golagros with a wooden keg, saw the lieutenant die from blood loss, his blood mingling with a fine black powder that spilled out of the barrel….

"Gunpowder," Ramza whispered in realization.

And then, all was white and fire.


	6. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Decided to make Ramza a little older. In the game, only one year passed since Zeakden. In this story, I decided to make it five (so Ramza will be twenty-one). The decision to do this was to emphasize how much more mature he has become while still retaining the childlike qualities that make him a unique leader. That, and because the age gap between him and Agrias won't be so pedolicious. 

You will note that, thus far, Ramza is not a major character. Indeed, this is quite intentional. The idea is to slowly make Ramza more and more central as he becomes more of a leader. POVs and character focus before then will be on characters with powerful personalities (Delita, Agrias, etc.). This is really an experiment in writing style; tell me if you like it or not in your reviews.

**Chapter Five: A Fateful Rainy Night**

Orbonne Monastery was not the grandest of holy sites, at least not in the modern sense. Its old stones held history and age in its architecture and style, and the very air of the place was thick with old, musty secrets. Thus it was that it felt so at home to the monastery's solitary headmaster, Simon, and his enchanting guest of many years, whom he loved as a daughter, the Princess Ovelia.

The princess was indeed an enchanting vision of youthful loveliness and grace. Still south of her twenty-first year, she held herself with the full maturity of a future queen and the nobility of the highest order. Though uncrowned and dressed in humble priestly garments, as befit one retired to the monastery, she seemed to make these simple robes as rich and stately as the finest of Oriental silks.

The princess quietly prayed for the peace of her war-torn nation, for the peace of all Ivalice, for she was a kind-hearted woman who believed that she had a sworn, divine duty to nurture and protect her people.

But such idealism alone could not save a nation. That was why Agrias Oaks, Holy Knight of God, stood patiently at the princess' side. Where Ovelia possessed the charisma and drive, Agrias offered the strength and force necessary to bring about those dreams.

"Princess, let us go," said Agrias. "We must leave now before Goltanna sends his men to abduct you."

"Is Gallione any safer than here, Agrias?" Ovelia asked quietly, ending her prayers. "I came here to escape the coming war between Princes Larg and Goltanna, yet to go to Larg's domain is to invite the war."

"The Hokuten will protect you, princess, and so will I," Agrias replied solemnly. "Now come, the mercenary escort has arrived."

As Agrias conveyed the princess to the monastery's foyer, Simon noticed the disdainful wrinkling of her brow. Curious as to Agrias' dismay, the monk inquired, "What burdens leaden your heart, Lady Knight?"

"Naught but my faith in the Hokuten's wisdom," was her curt reply. "Mercenaries, Father Simon. Mercenaries! They saddle the honor of the princess' protection to mere rabble." It was clear that the stony-faced knight was furious at what she perceived to be a grave breach of chivalry and knightly responsibility.

"But Lady Agrias," placated the monk calmly, "you know as well as any that these mercenaries are, by far, the best in all Ivalice. It is said that their leader boasts the strength of a hundred Hokuten or a hundred Nanten. Indeed, I have heard that this Gaff Gafgarion is so skilled with a blade that he even fought toe to toe with the great Cidolfas Orlandu."

Agrias sneered all the more at this claim. "When criminals and thieves like Gafgarion stand on par with honorable men like the Thunder God, I question not only the wisdom but also the sanity of the men who take them to hire. But enough talk, for the knaves in question approach."

The Holy Knight held her icy demeanor as a warrior would a shield against the arrows of an enemy. Following that metaphor, her cold, blue-eyed gaze was, then, her sword and it sought to pierce the character of the unscrupulous mercenaries that approached.

She obviously harbored no love for the itinerant warriors, for they were the epitome of lawlessness and distrust. Unallied with any nation or any knighthood, they were hirelings and sellswords who lay their loyalties to the clink of coin alone. Such a shallow life was inconceivable to Agrias.

The mercenary captain, Gaff Gafgarion was known to her in particular. A veteran of many battles, he was once a knight expelled for his brutal tactics and lack of honor. He fought for many different kings during the Hundred Years' War and served with the Hokuten as well as the Death Corps during the peasants' insurrection.

Gafgarion himself was an imposing figure, fully worthy of his reputation—uncouth in his unwashed armor, he had the appearance of a grizzled soldier. He was comfortable with the heavy, battle-darkened plate and the heavier blade at his side. In his mid-fifties, he was yet hale and strong of arm, with experience that younger warriors could only dream of.

To think that such a dastardly barbarian was Ovelia's protector rankled within proud Agrias' heart.

What surprised her, however, was Gafgarion's companion, a young blonde only a little over twenty. He was not particularly tall or broad of shoulder like Gafgarion nor was he anywhere near as comfortable in his armor. Indeed, he seemed out of place, confused, even naive as he looked around the foyer with awe. He seemed a child. The contrast between this innocent young man and the battle-hardened mercenary was striking to Agrias.

"You must be our employer," said Gafgarion gruffly, ignoring protocol and etiquette. He bowed rakishly, mockingly to the princess. "Rest assured, m'lady, we will see you to Igros without delay."

He was about to clasp the princess' shoulder, but Agrias's gauntleted fingers wrapped around his wrist with an iron-like grip. A deadly glare entered her ice-blue eyes. "You will show the princess the respect due her station, mercenary," she growled.

"You must be Agrias Oaks," the mercenary drawled. "I've heard of you. The Golden Paladin, they call you. I have to say, you're a bit skinner than I thought you'd be. But you're pretty enough to do your family name justice, I suppose."

"You, ruffian, will keep a civil tongue in your head, lest I cut it out with your own blade."

Gafgarion guffawed uproariously. "I'd like to see you try, girl. You're a skilled fighter, so the tales go, but I can tell you right now: draw steel on me, and you won't live to see the morning."

The blonde man that accompanied Gafgarion looked startled and alarmed by the sudden threat of violence in the air. Agrias noticed that he made to intervene, but Ovelia beat him to it.

"Enough, both of you," said the princess with her full authority. "Agrias, we must not be so hostile. And you, Captain Gafgarion, will pay Lady Oaks and myself the respect we are due. We cannot have infighting amongst ourselves, for we already have enough enemies at our gates."

As if on some horrible and ironic cue, the clapping of chocobo talons scratched at the monastery's flagstones. Outside the great doors, standing in the rain of the evening, were seven Nanten Knights—the elite of Zeltennia.

Agrias, eyes widening in alarm, gently escorted the princess back into the monastery. "Hide, princess," she begged. "Simon, do not let her leave the sanctuary of this place. I will protect her from these knaves—with my life, if need be," she said solemnly.

"You mean 'we,' Oaks," interrupted Gafgarion. "Just because you don't like me doesn't mean you can't count on me—I'm getting a nice sum for this job, after all."

Agrias only huffed scornfully at this declaration. Her attention turned to the uneasy young man. "And you? I can at least trust in Gafgarion's greed. What of your loyalties? You look like you're about ready to run away at the first sign of fighting."

The young man staggered at the mention of running away. Suddenly, he straightened and firmed his jaw. "You can count on me to protect the princess," he said with solemnity equal to Agrias' own vow. The Holy Knight was not expecting such a reply from a mercenary.

"Very well then," she said. "Beyond those doors is our enemy. Let us meet them as true warriors would."

Boldly, the Golden Paladin led the two mercenaries into the impromptu battlefield. There, the seven Nanten waited. "Lady Agrias Oaks of the Royal Guard," announced the Nanten commander, "we are here to parley for Princess Ovelia. Prince Goltanna of Zeltennia wishes to speak with his blood relative."

Agrias countered, "You must be joking! The princess is closest to Prince Larg by blood; crossing into his realm is tantamount to war—do you wish to set the spark that will enwrap our nations in bloodshed, you fool?"

In unison, the Nanten drew their weapons: swords, axes, and lances. "If you wish to turn this into a war, then war it will be," the leader said quietly. "Holy Knight! Prepare yourself!"

Raising her own sword, Agrias cried, "For the White Lion!"

Gafgarion shoved his young companion ahead. "Come on, Ramza—we've got a job to do."

"Er…yes." The young man drew his sword uncertainly.

And then battle was engaged.

Agrias won the initial passes, her sword plowing through the wooden haft of an axe and slicing deep into the shoulder of a Nanten Knight. She raised her thick gauntlet high, turning aside a lancer's pike; her return thrust buried itself to the hilt in the man's belly. With a powerful kick, she shoved the slain lancer off her sword's tip. Then she surveyed the mercenaries at their bloodwork.

Gafgarion proved worth of his terrible reputation. Like a demon, he barreled into two knights, hacking the arm off one and slugging the other across the temple with his fist. Then he grabbed the slain knight's sword and plunged both this blade and his own into his other foe's chest. Lacking the finesse of a knight, Gafgarion made up for his lack of honor with ruthlessness.

But what surprised Agrias was the young man, Ramza. He seemed very inexperienced and unconfident, but even as terror and uncertainty flooded his wide, childlike eyes, his hands and feet moved with the puissant skill of a master swordsman. The surety he lacked in his soul was surmounted by the adroitness of his sword-arm. The three Nanten he crossed blades with soon found those blades in pieces.

Though the young man, Ramza, had his foes at his mercy, and by rights, should have slain them then and there as befits a warrior, he strangely sheathed his blade and waved them off. "Go on," he begged them with empathy. "You're beaten. Go on—leave!"

The Nanten, however, were a proud breed. Retreat was beneath them, especially after so complete a defeat. They drew knives from their belts and, with war cries, struck at the young man. But Ramza was no longer there. He had slipped to their flanks. With horror etched onto his smooth features, the young man's arms moved of their own accord, slicing open the belly of one of the knights.

"I beg you again," said Ramza quietly, "leave." This time, the remaining Nanten did retreat. Ramza let out an audible sigh.

Victory was in the hands of the soldiers of the White Lion.

Agrias was about to call the men to regroup when a cry echoed from within the monastery. "Princess!" the Holy Knight whispered with wide eyes. She ran into Orbonne and found Simon lying wounded from a blow to the face. Though she worried for the frail monk's health, she set aside her concerns and focused on Ovelia. She burst through a door leading to the pond in the back of the monastery.

There, she beheld a kidnapping. A young man with brown hair and plated armor bearing the Black Lion of Zeltennia on its tabard had the princess tied over his shoulder. Throwing Ovelia on the back of a chocobo, he made ready to ride.

"Wait!" Agrias demanded, her sword drawn. "Stop, Nanten!"

The young man, seated in his saddle, laughed. "Nanten, am I? If you say so. Don't bother trying to catch me, woman. By the time you get to your mount, I'll be long gone. If you want to blame someone for this, blame yourself or God." With an imperious gesture, he kicked his chocobo into a full run, disappearing over the next hillock.

"It can't be…" whispered Ramza from behind her. Agrias turned, startled, for she did not hear his approach. But Ramza was staring out over the hillock. "Delita…you're alive…but why are you working for Goltanna?"

The Holy Knight immediately grabbed the young man by the collar, shaking him roughly. "You know that man? Tell me everything you know, mercenary!"

But Ramza did not seem entirely conscious of her. He was dazed, shocked to near-silence at what he saw. His face, already pale, turned almost stark white. The best he could do was murmur, "Delita…is alive."

"I don't have time for this," Agrias grumbled. "Mercenary, pull yourself together and tell me what's going on."

She words were thick with command and was used to being obeyed. It proved enough to bring Ramza out of his stupor. "I knew that man once," Ramza said quietly. "I thought he died. I can't tell you much, really—he should have died…."

Agrias only scowled in disgust; the young man was rambling, was barely cognizant. It angered her fiercely, but she knew that her fury was born from her own inability to protect the princess. She had failed her duty, but she would be damned a hundred times over if she did not try to rectify her mistakes.

Gruffly shoving Ramza to the side, the Holy Knight marched back into the monastery while saying to Gafgarion, "Get to your mounts; we leave tonight. We're going after them."

* * *

Admittedly, Agrias had spent little of her life outside the training academies, churches, and royal courts of the elite classes. Her studies as a Holy Knight kept her on the fringe of what some of her grittier subordinates would call the "real world." She was more than aware of her lack of information concerning the woof and weave of the underworld or even the simple threads of a peasant's life.

Yet she made up for her sheltered education with an apt and flexible mind. Thus it was that she deduced the next stage of the kidnapping. The kidnapper, Delita, was clearly an unscrupulous and cunning adversary, for he struck a churchman from behind without a moment's hesitation. Doubtless deception and traps would be his weapon of choice to throw off any possible pursuit.

Agrias was more than aware of this—indeed, she was expecting resistance to her efforts. But the tactician within her knew that the fastest way out of the Orbonne region, notorious for its difficult riding and rock-strewn fields, would be by the main highway—a highway leading through the crossroads of Dorter.

It was to the trade city that the Holy Knight pressed her chocobo. It was to the trade city that she urged the mercenaries onward. They had to be swift, lest the kidnapper Delita leave Dorter before them. If he did, it would be next to impossible to locate him, for while all the southern roads led _into_ Dorter, dozens led _out_. Fortunately, Delita did not have much of a lead on them; Agrias, Ramza, and Gafgarion reached the trade city by noontime of the next day, after a hard ride through the rainy night.

The Holy Knight made a brief, yet complete, survey of her "troops." The mercenary captain was, of course, quite hale and alert, for his advanced age belied his rock-like constitution and the years and years of heavy marching he had done all his life. Indeed, it was readily apparent that he was in better shape after a day's ride than she was. Agrias absently rubbed at aching eyelids.

Ramza, on the other hand, looked like a wreck. His pale face was wan, the thin frame suddenly emaciated, the bulky dark leather armor hanging loosely from his small shoulders. To Agrias, a seasoned fighter, he looked like a green warrior out on his first tour—and even worse, one that was already succumbing to shellshock. She briefly wondered why Gafgarion kept him around.

The three unlikely companions rode their mounts up one of Dorter's main roads, one leading out onto the northern highway. It was on this strangely empty path that she saw a knight dressed in the colors of the church speaking to a ruffian. The sight was truly strange, for no knight of the cloth would degrade himself with a conversation with such an obvious scoundrel.

But it was this very knight's words that astonished Agrias. "Five hundred gold pieces for the heads of the mercenaries and the Holy Knight's," said the knight. "Make sure they don't leave this city alive, or we'll have you branded for heretics and excommunicated from the church!"

"Fine, fine," his shady partner said without much care. "We'll tie them down for you, no problem. Let's see the cash up front, though, all right, sire?" He said the last word with such unmasked contempt that the knight scowled. Yet a purse exchanged hands regardless.

The knight heard the clicking of chocobo talons on the flagstones and saw the party's approach. "Here they are—remember, none are to leave here alive!" With that, the knight ducked into an alley and disappeared.

The ruffian turned to appraise his targets…but his eyes widened and his jaw slackened in horror. "Gafgarion!" he cried, recognizing the infamous mercenary. "Shit, this almost isn't worth five hundred! Come on out, boys!" With a whistle, four other hit men appeared out of virtually every crack and crevice on the street.

Agrias sneered at the paltry filth laid out before her. With the pride of a lioness, she said derisively, "This is supposed to stop us?" Yet her bravado held a hint of confusion and concern—the knight who hired this rabble had mentioned the church's involvement in killing her—or more specifically, killing those who wanted to rescue Princess Ovelia.

A horrible possibility crossed her mind: could the church, not Goltana, be responsible for the princess' kidnapping?

Agrias found Ramza looking at her with childlike concern, for he had noticed the quiet undertones in her voice and saw the well-hidden horror in her face. She forced her visage into its usual stoniness; her pride would not let her acknowledge that some cowardly mercenary had managed to read her so well.

"Gafgarion, can I trust you to fight until the princess is rescued?" she asked suddenly, changing the focus of her attention.

The mercenary captain only nodded. "Of course. Remember, the contract said full payment at the end of service—not before." With that, he drew steel and kicked his mount into a charge. Agrias and, lastly, Ramza also threw themselves into powerful runs.

Battle was joined, with Gafgarion at the lead. True to his terrible reputation, the vicious fighter tore through his foes like a demon unleashed. Though a lucky thief's blade tore out the throat of his mount, Gafgarion was surprisingly nimble in his winter years and recovered quickly from the fall. His retaliatory blow gutted the thief in question.

Agrias, too, lost her mount early in the fight; one of her enemies carried a crossbow, which he put to immediate use. The Holy Knight dealt with the archer with a well-thrown knife she carried in her boot. But her victory was short-lived, for two of the surviving thieves pushed her back into a wall and one, apparently skilled in brawling, knocked her blade from her hand.

Though a skilled warrior with a variety of weapons, Agrias was, much to her chagrin, helpless in a fistfight. Her arms were strong, yes, but while she could overpower most men in terms of brute strength, she lacked the height and weight necessary to attain victory from pugilism and wrestling. The thieves must have realized this, for they threw their strongest blows into her belly and face. Then they threw her, dazed, onto the ground, where they pinned down her arms and legs. One drew a knife and made ready to cut open her throat.

Agrias would have preferred a nobler end, but she was resolved to meet God as an honorable servant. She raised her eyes defiantly, staring into her would-be killer's face with all the pride of a queen, daring him to slit her throat. But the knifeman's expression turned to one of surprise and horror as his weapon hand was sliced clean from his wrist. He fell back, grasping at the bleeding stump, only to be kicked in the head by a hard leather boot. The other thief stood, drawing a pair of short swords.

Ramza barreled into him, shoving the thief into a wall. With a surprisingly powerful punch for his gawky frame, the young mercenary cuffed his opponent across the face with the iron hilt of his sword. That was enough to knock the thief unconscious. Ramza then turned to the man he maimed. "Take your friend and leave," he implored. "I don't want to have to hurt you further; go." The thief needed no second mentioning; he grabbed his unconscious comrade and hobbled away.

Ramza sheathed his blade and picked up Agrias'. He extended a hand to her, a gesture of friendship and an offer to help up. But the proud knight slapped his hand away and took her sword.

"I don't understand you," she said coldly. "Why did you let them go? And not just them—but the Nanten, too? Are you truly that foolish to leave a sworn enemy at your back, you idiot?" She stormed off toward Gafgarion, not caring that her hard words left a pained expression on Ramza's countenance.

"Why do you keep him around?" Agrias demanded of the mercenary captain, jerking a thumb at Ramza. "He is clearly not a warrior. His propensity for mercy is admirable, but it will surely get us killed."

Gafgarion only shrugged in answer. "The boy's got potential, lady knight," he replied. The Holy Knight only laughed scornfully. But the mercenary captain persisted, "Think about it—he can disarm and completely defeat his opponents without killing them. He has skill, to be sure, but he's holding back. Think of what he could do if he didn't hesitate to kill. Think of how dangerous he can be then."

And Agrias did think and it was enough to stop her derisive laughter.


	7. Chapter 6

Author's Note: We're switching from secondary characters to Ramza. His POV will be growing more and more dominant now. Not terribly happy with this chapter. I didn't feel the "go" feeling I usually get when I'm writing.

**Chapter Six: Delita**

There was a common tale told by the bedside for young children too scared to go to sleep. It went something like this: Once upon a time, long, long ago, before Ivalice was united as it was, there were seven countries. These countries fought long and hard and shed much blood. The king of one of these countries wanted the power to rule the world. Greed had ever been sin's temptation. He gained the power he sought, but sin is an effrontery to God. The king paid for his immorality with his life and his kingdom.

But he was not the only one to pay, for in his greed, he unleashed the devil's spawn. These monsters ran amok throughout Ivalice, burning and killing, striking fear into all who beheld them. But God would not leave his beloved people to the mercy of merciless monsters. He sent down twelve heroes, the Zodiac Braves, to fight the evil that threatened Ivalice….

It was a story Balbanes told Ramza many times, a tale that instructed as much as it comforted those who feared the dark things in the night. "To be even a tenth courageous as the least of the Zodiac Brave," Balbanes would always say, "is to be truest to the noble virtues of knighthood."

_Father…. I guess I can't be the knight you wanted me to be._

Ramza hung his head in his own private shame as he walked behind Agrias and Gafgarion. They were intently studying tracks that deviated from the main highway—initially those of a heavily-laden chocobo, but eventually turning into the hard edges of boots and soft-soled slippers. Delita and the princess had moved off chocobo-back toward the woods outside of Zeltennia.

_That makes sense. If he skirts around Zeltennia's northern border, which is still weak after the Death Corps affair, then he could slide into any of the eastern nations with ease. But what would he do with the princess then? Delita, what is your scheme?_

And Ramza knew he had to have one. Delita never acted without a plan…except for one time…so long ago…at Zeakden.

"Ramza," Agrias called harshly. "I say, Ramza! Wake up, boy! We're moving. Your 'friend' must be making for Zirekile falls, just east of here. It's an easily defendable position." She boldly took the point position, striding confidently into the woods.

The young mercenary cringed under her biting words. _She doesn't seem to like me._

Gafgarion came up and clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't fret about her, lad," he said winningly, his gruffness suddenly dispersed. "You just do your job and we'll all be going home several hundred gold pieces richer. And that's the key to everything, right, Ramza?"

Ramza did not agree with that at all, but he smiled winsomely anyway. "Sure, Gafgarion. You don't need to worry about me. I know how to use a sword, after all."

The old mercenary captain's easy glance turned hard. "Aye, lad, sure you do. I know." Then he turned and followed Agrias into the greenery.

_What was that all about? No matter, I guess. I'm sure that it's just my imagin—_

A scream cut his thoughts short.

Ahead, Agrias' eyes widened in horror and concern. "Ovelia!" Surely, the noble knight must have been terribly shaken to refer to the princess so formally. But decorum was far from her mind. Ramza watched, stunned, as she charged forth with sword flashing.

"Ramza, move!" commanded Gafgarion, rushing into the fray himself.

When the three arrived at the falls, they found Delita with the princess atop the bridge that spanned the gap. The bridge itself was what made Zirekile so defensible—unless the enemy controlled both ends of it. Knights wearing the colors of the Hokuten advanced on either end of the plank bridge, swords drawn.

Delita held the center, with two Hokuten corpses already staining the woodwork, courtesy of his blade. The princess stood behind him; strangely enough, she clutched at his sleeve desperately, as if expecting him to protect her.

"Ovelia!" Agrias cried wildly, alerting everyone to their presence.

The princess' eyes widened in joy and relief. "Agrias! Save us!" she implored. Without a moment's hesitation, the Holy Knight rushed to the steep, uneven path that led up to the bridge. Even at this distance, Ramza could see Delita's jaw tighten at the mere suggestion that he could not protect her alone.

"Delita," the young mercenary called in a much more controlled tone—but one that hid vast emotion and turmoil, "why…Delita, _why_?"

His old friend glanced briefly down at him, the stiff jaw relaxing into a bitter smile. "Now is not the time to banter philosophy, Ramza," he said jokingly. "If you want a reunion, then get up here and help me!"

_"Help me," he says. Not "save me." Delita—you always did try so hard to do everything on your own…and it was for Teta. Always for Teta. You had to be strong for her._

Recalling that young, innocent face, blasted from the face of the earth because of a stupid mistake, made Ramza's fingers itch. He looked up to the bridge, where Agrias and Gafgarion were clambering up to reach Delita and the princess. On either side of the bridge were Hokuten.

_Hokuten, whom my father served. Hokuten, who indirectly led to Teta's death._

_I won't let them lead to Delita's._

He ran up the path with more grace and agility than the mercenary captain or the Holy Knight—agility born from some inner demon that clawed at his soul with talons made of guilt. "Delita, I'm coming!" he shouted.

Agrias beat him to the top. She cut down one of the Hokuten right from the start and was about to strike down a second when Gafgarion got to the stop. The mercenary captain drew a knife from his belt and threw it into the Holy Knight's thigh. She let out a surprised cry and fell to one knee. Ramza could only stare at this in shock.

"Gafgarion!" Agrias growled in a fury. "What is the meaning of this?"

The mercenary captain only shrugged. "Business. Prince Larg and Dycedarg Beoulve hired me to work for you. The princess is coming to Igros with me, lady knight." He turned to the Hokuten. "Kill her, while she's down! By order of the prince!" he commanded.

The nearest Hokuten kicked Agrias' sword off the edge of the bridge and raised his own blade for the finishing blow. The Holy Knight, defiant as ever, did not flinch as the weapon began its descent. This time, Ramza knew with chilling certainty, he would not be able to turn aside that strike.

But Delita could. With unprecedented skill, he cut down the Hokuten he was fighting, and leaped off the edge of the bridge. He grabbed at the rope railing and swung himself around, coming up right next to Agrias' attacker and knocking him right off. The knight fell onto the rocks below.

"Princess, get off the bridge!" Delita shouted. The princess only nodded, seemingly trusting him. She moved toward the other end of the walkway. Then Delita turned to Agrias. "You, Holy Knight, pull yourself together!" Agrias only glared at him for his condescending tone and struggled to her feet. But her leg failed her and she ended up leaning against the cliff-side. She seemed unusually wan and weak; sweat beaded on her brow and her breath came in hard gasps.

Ramza, worried, moved toward her. But Gafgarion stood before him.

"Your brother, Ramza," the mercenary captain said in low tones, "gave the order himself, you know."

The earlier mention of his brother had stunned him, but the fact that Gafgarion _knew_…. "How did you know I was a Beoulve? I never told you my family name."

"Ha! You're pretty naive, lad. Beoulve hired me to watch you, of course! Besides, 'Ramza Ruglia?' That surname's almost as famous as Beoulve. Not many peasant women get married off to famous knights like Balbanes Beoulve." Gafgarion pointed his sword at him. "But that's neither there nor here. This is. Ramza, I like you, kid—don't make me have to hurt you. Just do as you're told, all right?"

"I won't!" Ramza said fiercely.

Gafgarion frowned. "Don't be so petulant, boy. This is for everyone's good."

"You think handing the princess over to Larg—a man who's own knights want to kill her—will be for the good? I can't stand by and let innocent people get hurt!" Teta came into his mind again. His fingers itched painfully. "No! I can't stand by and let innocents be hurt! Gafgarion! Get out of my way!"

The mercenary captain only sneered. "Fool child! Fool, spoiled child! You don't even know what's going on, do you? Can't you see, Ramza? If Ovelia lives, chaos will ensue. She can't take the throne, not now!"

Ramza drew his sword. "I don't care. The princess is a living person, Gafgarion. I can't let people die like this."

"You are so quick to make yourself look like a fool," Gafgarion spat derisively. "What gives you the right to decide how people will die, Ramza? I know you've killed before, even if it was never in my service. You have the look of someone who has killed and couldn't stomach it. You're just being an idealistic fool if you think you can save anyone with a cowardly heart like yours!"

He brought his sword up in an aggressive stance. "I had hope for you, lad. You're better with a sword than most people I know. You can beat hardened killers without a scratch and without scratching them in return. I always hoped that working with me would make you into a real man, into a real soldier. But you're just like Dycedarg said—a fool."

Gafgarion was finished talking. He charged Ramza with a battle cry. The young mercenary only barely parried the ferocious blows that rained down on him. Never before had he faced off against anyone like Gafgarion! The man was truly a demon in human guise, for he seemed unstoppable and relentless. He pounded away at Ramza's defenses, bit by bit. Already, the younger warrior's arms tired and ached and his breaths became labored. But Gafgarion only kept on attacking, his energy and strength limitless.

"You should have just done as you were told, Ramza," he said sadly as he stared at Ramza over their crossed blades. "I meant it when I said I liked you. You're a good lad; Dycedarg doesn't give you the credit you deserve."

"Shut up, Gafgarion!" Ramza growled back. "You betrayed me! You're going to kill the princess—you're going to give her over to people who'll kill her! How can you do this? Don't say money, Gafgarion! Don't make me hate you more than I already do, you bastard!"

They broke off and stood apart, circling each other warily. "Don't be stupid, Ramza. This is business. This is what we've been doing since you joined up. A contract, Ramza—that's what governs the loyalty of men like you and me—mercenaries!"

Gafgarion gave a heave of his shoulders and sent the younger fighter sprawling onto the ground. His sword fell off to the side, out of reach. He felt the cold steel of the mercenary captain's blade on his cheek. Ramza hung his head and murmured, "I didn't want to be a mercenary…I just…wanted to run away."

Gafgarion seemed confused. "What are you talking about?" Then he shrugged. "No matter. I'll let you live, lad. But don't get in my way." Then he turned away and stalked toward the bridge, where the princess was helping Agrias steady herself. Delita stood at the bridge's mouth, holding off the remaining Hokuten with the skill and power of a hundred knights.

But Agrias was wounded—by the poison on the Gafgarion's knife more than the knife itself—and Delita was beginning to tire; they would be easy foes for the experienced mercenary captain. Then the princess would be his…and so would the bounty Larg had on her head.

Gafgarion smiled when he saw the defiant glare in Agrias' eyes, knowing full well that she could do nothing to stop him…but then his smile faded into an O of shock when he felt a shoulder slam into the small of his back, sending him headlong off the cliff.

Gaff Gafgarion issued a scream as he fell to the rocks waiting below.

Ramza sank to his knees, horrified at what he had just done. His hands trembled terribly and his breath came in ragged gasps. But then he felt a strong, calming hand on his shoulder, steadying his nerves.

"Delita…."

His old friend smiled warmly, though his face was wan and exhausted; behind him lay the corpses of the Hokuten, dispatched to a man against his ungodly sword. "Hello, Ramza. It's been a long time."

Ramza wanted to say something—anything. This was Delita, whom he had not seen in such a long time…and all that time, he thought him dead. But he could think of nothing to say.

Then Agrias groaned loudly, falling to the ground. The princess cried out in alarm. "Something's wrong with her, Delita!" she said worriedly. "Her face is all hot and she's not breathing right. Oh, God, help her, Delita!"

He knelt beside the Holy Knight and brushed a hand against her forehead. "Fever," he said, noting the obvious. "It must be poison from the knife." He reached out to wrest the weapon free of her thigh, but Ramza stopped him.

"If you pull it out like that, you might ruin the muscle," he said quietly, falling back into the old routine that was between him and Delita. "Go get water. Use your breastplate if you have to. Princess, please cut up your shawl into strips." Once the others had gone to carry out his instructions, Ramza helped Agrias up to a sitting position. She blinked blearily, but she was still conscious.

"Agrias, I need you to work with me here," he said soothingly, hoping to get through her poison-clouded mind. "You're sick, but I'm going to help you. I'll need to slice the legging of your trousers, all right? And then I'm going to pull out the knife. All right?" At her nod, shaky and weak as it was, he drew out a knife and proceeded to bare her wounded thigh.

Blood had already seeped into the cloth of her trousers; the wound was much more severe that it seemed.

_Gafgarion always said a barbed-tip knife was best to incapacitate someone…._

It was going to be tricky to remove the weapon without causing her further pain and injury. "All right, I'm going to take out the knife," he informed her calmly. "This will hurt, so bite on this so you don't cut off your tongue." He offered out his leather-clad hand. She eyed with warily. "Agrias, please cooperate," he implored. "I know you're strong—but even the strong can feel pain. Please, bite on this so you don't hurt yourself." Still wary, the proud knight put her teeth against the glove.

With the care he would have given to the most priceless of antiques, Ramza worked around the barbed tip and slipped the knife out of Agrias' thigh. Her blue eyes widened into icy agony, and a great muffled wail escaped her lips. She bit down on the gauntlet hard enough to penetrate the thick leather. Ramza winced when he felt her teeth cut into his flesh. But he did not stop. In a matter of moments, the horrid knife was free.

Ramza then licked the blade's edge and spat out the familiar taste of cobra venom. "Potent, too," he said with a grimace. He turned to Agrias. "I'll need to suck out the poison." She nodded blearily and he set to work. He pressed his lips tightly around her thigh, drawing the tainted blood into his mouth and spitting it to the side. He continued until he could no longer taste the vile poison in his mouth.

Just then, Delita and the princess returned, bearing water and cloths. "Press the wound," Ramza instructed. "Force as much blood out as you can, just to make sure the rest of the venom is gone. Then clean it."

"Where are you going?" Delita asked when Ramza stood up.

"I need to wash out my mouth," he said with a grin. For some reason, he could not stop himself from saying, "Let's hope this turns out better than when we saved Algus."


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven: Interlude at the Falls**

Agrias felt wetness on her brow, which was immediately followed up a stabbing pain in her leg and hips. Through eyes blearily with exhaustion and fever, she looked mournfully at her wounded limb. The legging slit open, a clean bandage dressed around the injury, her thigh nonetheless held a sickly purple pallor—a sure sign of infection. But she also saw a white cloth beside her, upon which lay a few crude tools and an earthenware bowl. The yellowish-white stains along the cusp of the dish indicated that it had been used to drain the pus from her thigh.

Agrias had seen her share of war wounds in her career. This particular injury was far from the worse she had ever seen…but it _was_ the worst ever inflicted upon her. The sickness raging through her raised sweat from every pore, making her tunic itch and chafe. Fortunately, whoever had been caring for her had the presence of mind to remove her armor and leather coat; had those articles remained, she would have much rather died than endure the discomfort of heat.

Her hand went up to her forehead, to inspect the wetness. A damp cloth fell into her palm. Then she looked around; the kidnapper—Delita, was it not?—sat by a lonely fire across from Princess Ovelia. It was an incongruous sight to the dutiful knight: someone as duplicitous as Delita talking amiably with the princess. But the princess seemed to be in no danger, and Agrias was still far too weak from the fever to do anything about it anyway…a fact that only frustrated her. The damp cloth was crushed in her fist.

It occurred to her that someone was missing from the unlikely group. Before she could try to locate Ramza, the young mercenary appeared at her side, a fresh bowl of water in his hands and lengths of clean cloth on his arm. He smiled cheerfully when he saw her awake, and knelt beside her with all the familiarity of a longtime friend.

"I'm glad you're finally awake," he said, setting the bowl of water down and dipping a piece of cloth in it. "The princess was very worried. I was, too." He gently placed the wet cloth across her head.

Agrias only grunted. His concern did not mean much to her; it was a knight's duty to give life and limb for her charge. But she leveled a hard look on him, holding him fast with her azure eyes. "You turned on Gafgarion," she said stonily. "You betrayed your employer, though he was doubtless being paid quite well for his own betrayals. Why did you side with us?"

The young mercenary shrugged his shoulders. "Call it instinct," he said. "Call it faith. But I couldn't just stand by and let someone innocent get hurt. Princess Ovelia has done nothing wrong. She doesn't deserve to be caught in a power struggle."

Agrias shivered, and not from the fever. It was disconcerting to hear her own beliefs echoed in this stranger's too-innocent voice. "Why did you ever become a mercenary then?" she demanded softly.

"It was a life," he replied. "I'm not particularly proud of it. But it was really the only option I had. I guess there could have been other roads, but I'm not clever enough to find them." Then he started undressing the bandages around her thigh. "I'm going to drain the wound," he explained with a slight shyness. "Please forgive my impropriety."

Suddenly, Agrias laughed, though it hurt to do so in her weakened state. "I'm a solider, Ramza Ruglia. I'm not one to be bothered by some boy tending to a cut on my leg. Just as long as you don't make it worse."

The young mercenary looked a bit flustered at being referred to as a "boy." But he nonetheless treated her wound with the meticulousness of a surgeon. Though he seemed so unsure about fighting, Agrias was surprised at the single-mindedness he exuded in his ministrations. His fingers were strong, yet clever and agile, working a lancet through the infected areas and pricking them open without eliciting even a spark of pain. When he finished, he cleaned and dressed the injury carefully.

"You're very good at healing," she noted with admiration.

He shrugged, as if brushing the praise aside. "It's one of the few things I'm good at," he said humbly. "Delita was always better at everything else." There was no envy, no resentment. It was a simple declaration of fact.

"You do not give yourself enough credit, it seems," Agrias countered. "You can outfight most warriors without harming them. That in itself is an impressive feat."

Ramza was taken aback by this continued praise. He murmured quietly, "I'm surprised to hear you say that, Agrias. I thought you didn't like me."

The holy knight settled herself into a more comfortable position. "I don't," she said bluntly. "Your fighting tactics are going to get you or someone else killed. Holding back in a fight's very stupid, Ruglia. But I can't deny the strength in you. Yet I can't deny the faults, either."

"Well," Ramza said with a shaky grin, "at least you're being fair."

Agrias was going to add more—some of it quite scathing—but then Delita called out, "Dinner's ready Ramza. What about the knight? Is she awake yet?"

"Yes," the young mercenary replied. Then he turned back to her. "You should eat something to restore your strength, Agrias. I'll bring you something. Oh! I'm sure the princess will want to talk to you, too. She's been very worried." With that, he stood up and went to the campfire, leaving Agrias to her thoughts for a few moments.

She idly brushed her fingertips against the new bandages around her leg. A soft curse escaped from her lips. Wounded—not badly, but enough to be a liability for traveling. Agrias wanted to kick herself for letting Gafgarion's foul tricks catch her. Now she would be less capable of carrying out her duty…she would be less capable of protecting the princess. To the proud knight, that blow hurt a thousand times more than any knife. "Damn it," she murmured harshly.

Then she saw Princess Ovelia approach, bearing two small plates of river trout. "Delita managed to catch these," she explained, setting one beside the knight. Agrias did not miss the soft, demure blush that stole onto her face when she mentioned that name. It made the holy knight's blood boil; she did not trust Delita in the slightest, rescuer of the princess or not.

"Agrias," Ovelia said quietly, "when you were unconscious, I prayed to God that you'd be all right. Ramza kept on saying that you would. He said that you were a very strong person. I'm glad he was right."

The holy knight stopped eating at that. "Ramza said that, huh?" she muttered thoughtfully. Then she resumed her meal, putting the thought aside. "He's a fool, but at least his instincts are good," she said. Then she looked at the princess and smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, princess. As long as you need me to protect you, there's nothing in the world short of God himself who can stop me from being at your side."

"Thank you, Agrias," Ovelia replied with heartfelt gratitude, clasping the knight's sword-callused hand in her own smooth ones. "But mustn't overburden yourself. Indeed, you won't need to anymore; Delita will surely share your duties. He promised to protect me, as well."

That earned a withering look. "He did, did he?" Her tone was full of dryness, full of venom.

Ovelia blinked at this display. "Agrias?"

"I don't trust him, princess," she said sharply. "He's up to something, I can feel it. How could anyone in their right mind jump into a political mess like this without a good motive? You shouldn't readily accept his protection, princess. You shouldn't trust him."

The princess suddenly seemed to clam up, distancing herself from the holy knight. Agrias winced; the beginnings of a chasm had started to open between them. Of course, she blamed Delita for it, which only made her dislike him further. "It is hardly in your power to dictate what I should and should not do, Agrias," Ovelia said crisply. "And from what I've seen, Delita Hyral is a trustworthy and noble man who swings his sword in pursuit of God's will. Until I've seen otherwise, I won't stand for you vilifying him."

"Princess…."

"No, Agrias," she continued with full authority. "Please understand. I trust this man. He risked his life to save mine—without any coercion or promise of gold or glory."

Agrias cut in, "By whose word was this claim made?"

"His," Ovelia said sternly, overpowering the flaw in her defense of Delita by sheer charisma. "He is a knight at heart, if not in name, Agrias. Please treat him as such. We _can_ trust this man, I'm sure of it. I'd feel much safer if the two of you worked together. You share the same mission, after all."

The holy knight was at a loss. The princess' word was her law, but Agrias still could not shake a sense of foreboding about dealing with Delita Hyral. He seemed amicable and trustworthy enough, and he had indeed saved the princess' life from the Hokuten. But there was a cold-bloodedness in him, a cunning in his eyes, that set Agrias' veins to ice. No honorable man could have such a demeanor.

But the princess' word was, after all, her law. With no small amount of discomfiture, Agrias murmured, "I'll trust him…to protect you." At least in that regard she could trust him to hold his own; she had no idea what his plans were, but they obviously involved keeping the princess alive.

But that simple statement was more than enough for Ovelia. She smiled pleasantly, her old humor returned to her young face. "Excellent! Perhaps, in time, we could all become friends. They seem to be very nice people, Agrias. Delita and his friend, Ramza. Did you know that they grew up together?"

"No, I did not," Agrias murmured. Then she rubbed her forehead, accidentally knocking the cloth off. "Ruglia does seem to be a nice person, though," she said absently. "Perhaps too nice for a fighter's life." Again, she rubbed her head.

Ovelia's brows frowned in concern.

"I'm feeling a little tired, princess," the knight explained.

Her charge smiled warmly. "Then by all means, sleep, my friend. God knows that you've earned it."


	9. Chapter 9

On the Status of the Novel

Since the latter days of high school, I had a dream of becoming a doctor. As time went by, I entered college. I took the courses. I got the grades. Now it all comes down to the pivotal months before the final segment of my academia. As of this writing (2/2/06, 10:52 PM), I have exactly two months, twenty-one days, ten hours, and thirty-eight minutes before I walk into classroom, sit down, and take the MCAT.

For those who don't know what those four letters mean, they represent a standardized test for those who wish to enter medical school. There are other factors aside from grades and tests that determine one's ability, of course. But with thousands of applicants a year, it is inevitable that the medical schools will play the numbers game and filter out the hopefuls from the hopeless based on their college GPA and their MCAT scores.

In short, my dream has but one final hurdle, and it is a clusterfuck.

Why should you care? Because it means I won't be updating Final Fantasy Tactics: Novelization until after the test is over. And that won't happen until April 22, 2006, starting promptly at 8:30 AM and just as promptly ending eight hours later.

Eight.

Hours.

Later.

So while the next two months and that dreaded test date of April 22 will be hell in a handbasket for me, it just means no updates for you.

HOWEVER—all is not lost. As of this moment, all who look upon these words are invited to ghostwrite the novel on my behalf. The tradition of "ghostwriting" is not unprecedented (ever wonder why there are so many Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys novels? Lots of ghostwriters). A ghostwriter essentially creates the story instead of the accredited author. Whoever ghostwrites for me during this interim time will receive full credit for his/her work and my greatest and heartfelt gratitude.

If you'd like to ghostwrite the novel, email me at While you have full reign over the course of the story, I myself will still be available to proof, revise, and supervise your creative work—just so it keeps in line with some crucial story elements from the original draft (i.e., the Ramza x Agrias plot line).

Hope to hear from someone. If not, you're just going to have to wait 2 months. See you in April.


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